


tidings of comfort and joy

by MarquisdeDiscotheque, Zsazsa4



Category: The Terror (TV 2018)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Christmas, Crossdressing, Hand Jobs, M/M, Pre-Canon, but it probably isn't who you think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:15:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27941372
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MarquisdeDiscotheque/pseuds/MarquisdeDiscotheque, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zsazsa4/pseuds/Zsazsa4
Summary: Iced in for their first winter, the ships put on Christmas theatricals at Beechey. Presents are given - romances blossom - and Mr Dickens offers some unanticipated struggles.
Relationships: Captain Francis Crozier/James Fitzjames, Thomas Armitage/Sgt Solomon Tozer, William Gibson/Cornelius Hickey
Comments: 45
Kudos: 41





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'Happy, happy Christmas, that can transport the sailor and the traveller, thousands of miles away, back to his own fireside and his quiet home!'  
> \- Charles Dickens, _The Pickwick Papers_

**Beechey Island, 1845: three weeks to Christmas**

‘And I said I’d help out with the set and all, make a crib.’ Tozer flexed his hands - he’d been a carpenter, back when, and he had big rough hands to show for it. Armitage didn’t mind hearing about all that sort of thing from him, because where from most men it would be dull, the sergeant was always straightforward and engaging. He watched Tozer mending an old shirt absently, before he realised he’d given rather too much of his attention over to it. Was one thing watching Tozer shouting at the men on deck, and quite another hanging about with him down here while they mended their smalls and the like. ‘But then they said there’s no crib, no animals, nothing, it isn’t a nativity. It’s a Christmas carol, what’s that without the baby Jesus, they’ve all got the baby Jesus in them.’

He hesitated to interrupt - the marines put up with his presence, even quietly liked him, maybe, but he didn’t often stick his oar in. ‘That’s what the book’s called. _A Christmas Carol_. That they’re doing the show of.’

‘What? Never heard of it. What’s it all about, then?’ 

He did, at least, seem genuinely interested, they all turned to look at him and he quailed a little at it. He realised with mounting dismay that he could only partly remember it, but he did his best. ‘There’s this old miser, and he hates Christmas, and he goes to bed and sees all these three ghosts, and they say, if you don’t stop being such a mean bastard you’ll die and everyone’ll be happy about it. Oh, and one of the ghosts is all surrounded with greenery and food, I remember that. And then he sees the error of his ways and loves Christmas after all and he goes to a party, I think, and they have loads of food there too.’ He took a breath, aware it was probably the most he’d said in one go in a long while.

Nobody was laughing, though, they all looked fairly convinced. A couple of the lads at the back did look at him funny but that was all right. If anything, he’d rustled up a bit of intrigue for them. God knew little enough was happening otherwise.

Tozer, however, frowned intently. ‘All sounds a bit Popish to me. Three ghosts, greenery,’ - he cast around for something else - ‘cavorting. Is he a Catholic, then, the bloke who wrote it?’ 

This had not occurred to Armitage. ‘I don’t… It’s Charles Dickens, isn’t it, I thought he was just, well, normal…’ he trailed off. ‘I haven’t read the whole thing, just the captions and had a look at the pictures.’

Tozer seemed inclined to a bit of Christmas charity. ‘More than anyone else here has. One of the three wise men, we’ve got.’ He ruffled Armitage’s hair; it got a bit tangled up in his curls and that did hurt a bit, but that didn’t seem too bad a bargain. He swallowed - it seemed unbearably loud to him, although Tozer didn’t seem to notice - and looked away quickly. His first impulse was to look around and check that no one had noticed, but then he reasoned with himself that there was no reason for anyone not to notice. Tozer hadn’t done anything that anyone other than Tommy would take any notice of. And yet. It felt very, very noticeable. He was almost thankful the conversation had lodged firmly on Mr Dickens and his religious leanings.

Murmurs grew around them, until Tozer decided to mediate. Presumably his official role didn’t extend to this kind of question but he led with relish anyhow. ‘Daly, you’re Irish. Does this sound Roman to you? Three ghosts and green stuff?’

Daly shook his head. ‘We have one ghost, same as you. You’re getting mixed up. The Trinity, like.’

He didn’t know an awful lot about it himself, but Armitage had previously thought that everyone believed in the Trinity and it wasn’t just Papists. But then that probably wouldn’t be very helpful to add.

Tozer scowled, meditatively. ‘Captain’s Irish, though. Maybe he’s one of you lot.’

‘No, he’s a Prod, but I can’t speak for this Dickens bloke. That could be Irish, couldn’t it, Dickens?’

A general assent trailed about the room; yes, that sounded possible. Somebody in the corner wondered if the food would be real or just props, and somebody else shh’d him because they were discussing Mr Dickens now. Armitage stayed quite silent, feeling that he’d perhaps lost control of the conversation some time ago, if indeed he’d ever had it. He hoped that if word got back up to command then his name wouldn’t crop up. But at least they’d stopped grilling him about the bloody thing. Still, he wasn’t forgotten all together - Tozer gave him a good-humoured nod as he took up his own sewing again. He pinked up a little with pleasure, secretly proud, but resolutely turned his thoughts back to greenery and parties. 

**Two weeks earlier**

It had all started a half mile over, on Erebus, frozen like them in the little bay off Beechey. Christmas was fast approaching and the snow had started to fall thick. It would have been remarkable in England, but here - what was more snow. The men had played their football until the doctors began to warn of frostbite in the toes. They could hardly move for the drifts, anyway, until it got more solid.

Fitzjames had been on his way to the stores, feeling rather like a young boy again sneaking about the house where he shouldn’t be, liable to get a tap on the wrist from the cook. He could ask Bridgens, but where would be the fun in that? Besides, he was loathe for Sir John to catch him ordering a man about just to fetch him a tipple, especially given Sir John’s of course entirely sensible but sometimes wearing teetotalling.

Thus he’d retrieved his bottle of madeira and was in the act of taking it back to his cabin for a glass or two, when he almost tripped over a figure lurking in an alcove by the ladder. 

‘Oh, commander, sir! Very sorry to disturb you on your -’ here Des Voeux, for it was he, caught sight of the bottle. ‘Ah. Your trip.’ He eyed it up - clearly wouldn’t mind a glass himself.

‘One has indulgences, now and then, and well-earned too. I dare say you understand. By the way, Mr Des Voeux, where are you supposed to be?’ Fitzjames tried to look stern but really he couldn’t keep it up for long.

‘Well, nowhere - I’m not on watch, I mean, and we’ve taken today’s observations. I would be in my cabin, which is where I’d like to be, but Mr Weekes is fiddling with the door.’

Fitzjames knew too well the irksome feeling of bedevilment by a necessary instance of carpentry. ‘I only hope it’s finished soon, then, before another poor soul trips over you and makes more work for Mr Weekes.’

‘Or Dr Stanley. Although some of our blockheads are more fit for a carpenter’s help, true.’

Fitzjames snorted. If he’d been a lieutenant he might’ve added ‘well said, Mr Des Voeux,’ but in light of his promotion he thought the witty remarks might be left to him. ‘What’s that you’re reading, there?’

Des Voeux held up his book, in wondrously good condition though with a few stains to the cover. ‘ _A Christmas Carol_ , sir, by Mr Dickens. It being Christmas and all. A family favourite back at home.’

‘A little early, isn’t it?’

Des Voeux shrugged. ‘Maybe I’m a slow reader, sir,’ he said, like it was some obscure private joke.

‘Well. I’ve not read the thing myself; never had much time for Dickens, he always seemed to be publishing when I was off on the other side of the world. Damned inconvenient. Is it any good?’ 

Des Voeux just looked at him for a moment. ‘Quite good, sir. It’s generally thought.’

‘Ah. And what- what’s the plot?’

As Des Voeux launched into rather a compendious explanation, a strange thought, still unformed, began to take shape at the back of Fitzjames’ mind. It fermented there long after the conversation ended, and he woke up in the middle of the night with the madeira bottle rattling about on his desk and the makings of a rather fine plan.

That plan, however, was currently lacking rather a lot in its execution. He’d been scribbling away all afternoon - really should be on deck if only to look as if he were doing something, even though there really was nothing to do - but it just wasn’t coming together. The book stood open on his desk, surrounded by wads of rather illegible scrawling. He feared that there was a pretty hideous ink blot over Fezziwig’s party and had not yet steeled himself to turn back to it.

As he was thinking about what he might tell Des Voeux, who’d lent it to him in something like good faith, or whether he could just sneak it back into the ship’s library, Bridgens called at the door.

‘Come in,’ he said.

‘I’ve brought you tea, Commander, and I’ve a question regarding the stores-’ Bridgens took in the chaos with a slight smile. ‘Ah, composing odes again, sir? Pindaric or Horatian?’

With nowhere to put down his tray, he stood surveying. Fitzjames felt Bridgens’ erudite gaze bore into him, and for a moment regretted never quite having gotten around to reading as much Pindar or Horace as he might’ve.

‘Gosh, Bridgens,’ he said, ‘I am glad to see you. I’m making a real pig of this. Please, put the tray down and have a seat.’ He hastily pushed the papers into an untidy pile.

‘What am I looking at, then, sir?’ Bridgens assumed the role of schoolmaster with an easy air, leaving the tray on Fitzjames’ bed and coming to sit beside him. It did rankle a little, as Bridgens was his steward; but then it did seem like he’d read a fair bit more widely.

Fitzjames explained the problem, in as hopeful a tone as he could muster. ‘I have versified the prologue but it isn’t… what I’d hoped, if I’m honest,’ he finished.

‘I’m not quite sure I understand, sir,’ Bridgens said. ‘You’ve versified the prologue to… _A Christmas Carol_?’

Fitzjames shrugged helplessly, assuming the manner of a supplicant to an oracle.

‘Well.’ Bridgens took a look through the papers. ‘There’s a lot here, isn’t there? It, well - it’s more of a poem than a play, I assume you’re wanting a script. Perhaps it would be better to go back to the beginning and-’ he raised an eyebrow, at a particularly forced rhyme, Fitzjames imagined wretchedly ‘- to Mr Dickens’ prose.’

‘Capital suggestion. And how- how should I go about that?’

Bridgens chuckled. ‘Might I take these and have a look at them, sir? In my own time I could certainly provide a few recommendations. It’s a good idea, certainly, but you’ve had those magnetic observations to be getting on with, and you must be tired.’

‘Oh. Yes, rather.’

‘Why don’t I bring you some fresh water and you can prepare for bed. Oh, and just to clear everything up, sir - you took that bottle for your own use? Just checking we’re not out anything after all.’

Fitzjames blushed and nodded, trying to seem awfully unfussed about the whole thing. It was his bloody drink, after all. Bridgens only smiled sagely and gathered the papers. 

‘Don’t you want the book, too?’

‘Oh, no need, sir, I’ve my own copy. I find Mr Dickens very cheering for this time of year, and his sketches do capture London very faithfully for when one’s away. I have all of his books back in England, but most of his others are a bit bulky to take to sea.’ 

‘Quite.’ Fitzjames would never cease to be amazed by the copious library Bridgens seemed to be running out of his rather small berth. ‘I only really know Dickens from when _Bentley’s Miscellany_ was running _Oliver Twist_ , and I kept missing months and months of it so eventually I gave up. Rather good, though, what I remember - that Fagan fellow, was he supposed to be Irish?’

He perhaps detected a very faint snort from Bridgens - was that a twitch of the lips? - but it might equally have been a cough. Still, though he was loathe to admit it, in Bridgens’ capable hands perhaps the text would become something rather more performable. He had been going about it all wrong, anyhow - his talent lay in casting. Casting and costuming. Yes, that would suit him rather nicely.

***

‘I see,’ Crozier said, when Fitzjames had finished explaining all of these events to him. ‘I admit, James, I thought this would be more urgent.’ 

Fitzjames had come to him, snow still melting in his hair and about the shoulders and back of his coat, boots uncharacteristically scuffed. He was making quite the puddle in the great cabin. Crozier looked on with a dour expression; Fitzjames felt like he’d been merely humouring him since the moment he stepped down the hatch.

‘But it is urgent, Francis, don’t you see? We’ve only four weeks until Christmas Eve. And I’ve cut quite a lot out, but there are still quite a few lines for the main roles.’ He felt a slight twinge of guilt at ascribing Bridgens’ work to himself - that part he’d left out - but after all, it wasn’t so important.

‘Ah, yes, the roles. Draw lots?’ 

‘Well - no, I did have a few people in mind. Of course we could draw lots for the other parts. I’d quite like to do Marley, and although the junior officers aren’t always in it, I thought Mr Blanky would be a terrific Christmas Present.’

‘That he would, if you can persuade him. And who were you going to offer up as this poor miser, eh?’

The silence between them spoke volumes.

‘No,’ Crozier said, then tried to mould his grimace into something a little more amiable. ‘I’ve no head for it, too many lines. Something smaller, please.’

‘You would be perfect,’ Fitzjames said, and then realised how that sounded. ‘I mean to say- I feel no man could do justice-’

‘I know damn well what you mean to say, and if you weren’t a commander I’d -.’ He stopped, and visibly steeled himself to begin again. ‘Look, have you run this past Sir John yet?’ he asked hopefully. ‘I’m not sure all this will be up his alley. It might, I don’t know, sanction drunkenness on Christmas Eve.’

‘Of course I have.’ Fitzjames looked put-out. He preened his hair and examined a spot of ink on his cuff. Having trudged all the way over to Terror to impart the idea himself, he did not intend to leave until he’d achieved his mission, and settled in for a long evening of it. ‘He thinks it an excellent idea - raising spirits below decks, and all that, you know, peace on earth and goodwill to all men - although he shan’t be taking part. In fact, it was he that suggested you. Perhaps he thought it might cheer you up.’

‘I see,’ Crozier said carefully. ‘And were there any other parts you had in mind?’

‘I thought we might rig the draw for women’s parts,’ Fitzjames said. ‘It all seems very silly to me but some men do shy at it. We never cared at all as mids, it was all just larks.’

Crozier smiled wryly, half to himself and half to his glass. ‘Well, you haven’t been a mid for some time. We get older and the world changes around us.’

Fitzjames sighed. ‘Indeed. Still, Gore turns a shapely ankle and takes it in good part.’

Crozier mentally ran through his own lieutenants in short order and wondered which of them would look least horrendous in petticoats, or least horrified. ‘George would find it funny, I think.’ The other two would probably pass out from embarrassment. He wondered again if the musters had been rigged somehow, that Hodgson was his first pick. Still, at least the man would be game, which was far more than he could say of anyone else.

‘Well, then, it’s settled. Bridgens had the foresight to copy you out a couple of scripts so that you might get acquainted with the parts.’ Fitzjames produced a wad of papers from the deep recesses of his coat, only slightly battered from the journey, and laid them on the table.

‘A fait accompli?’ Crozier said. ‘Bringing your experience in, ah, diplomatic affairs to the Discovery Service. I can but applaud you.’

‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ Fitzjames said. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. Nothing else meant. No jibing or sniping. It’s only meant to be fun.’

Crozier considered, sloshing the whisky in his glass. ‘You must have been quite a sight in a dress,’ he said. Then, Fitzjames too surprised to reply, he added, ‘have a safe journey back.’

***

Cornelius Hickey was not a man easily silenced, but he stared tight-lipped now, illuminated by the warmth of the lamp in Gibson’s cabin.

‘You don’t like it?’ Gibson said, trying and failing to keep the disappointment out of his voice.

‘No! No, I do, Billy,’ he said, looking down at the set of handkerchiefs beautifully embroidered with C.H. Needlework fine as a woman’s, Hickey assumed - finer, since none of the women he’d known had been much of a hand even at darning their stockings, let alone at embroidery. The initials were framed with anchors and other tokens. No love-hearts, of course, they couldn’t afford to be that conspicuous, but a worked border of ferns and honeysuckle. Hickey felt a little aggravated - after all, ferns grew like mad once you got out of the city, they grew everywhere that proper plants died. Why couldn’t Billy have embroidered him nice flowers like you’d get in a shop? Yet it’d obviously been worked with a great deal of affection, and nobody had ever given him something personal before, not something like that.

He took one of Billy’s hands in his own and stroked it fondly. ‘They’re very nice. What’s it for?’

‘For- for? For Christmas, Cornelius. I know it’s a bit early but I’ll be busy with the lieutenants wanting dinner and the play and so on, I thought I’d give them to you now.’ While we’re alone, left unsaid but obviously thought. ‘But you can’t use them until Christmas.’

‘Oh.’ Hickey hoped his tone came off as surprise at the date, rather than anything more telling. 

‘That’s… that’s very thoughtful of you. I’ve-’

‘It’s fine if you haven’t,’ Billy said, though he did look quite rueful. They were sat face-to-face on his bed, ready to get up at any moment should anyone come about, though it was late enough nobody would. They had a good while before the watches changed and Hickey was missed.

‘No, I have. I have. It’s just, it’s a bit early, you said it yourself, and I’ve not got it on me. Your present.’

‘Oh, really? You don’t have to - I know you didn’t bring much onto the ship. I’d hate for you to go without to give me something.’

‘Of course I’ve got you something. I’ve done Christmas, we all did Christmas, gave loads of presents. Gave presents all the time, gave presents for nowt,’ Hickey said fiercely.

‘What? I never- I never thought you hadn’t given a Christmas present-’ Gibson eyed Hickey, caught somewhere between perplexity and amusement.

‘Didn’t need fucking Christmas to give fucking presents, did we,’ Hickey said. ‘Sorry, Billy,’ he added, then thought what a rum turn it was to end up a sailor and apologise for swearing.

Gibson shook his head. ‘No, no, do go on,’ he said. ‘Although…’ He pushed the handkerchiefs to one side and drew Hickey into a kiss, laughing against his lips. Hickey squirmed but gave in, bringing a hand to Gibson’s thigh to caress it. But Gibson took his wrist to still him for a moment, pulled off from the kiss.

‘So, master present-giver, when should I expect my gift?’ 

Hickey tried very hard to think of what was the normal time to give Christmas presents. ‘Well, I was going to give it to you Christmas Eve,’ he tried out, ‘but maybe I’ll get it to you earlier since you’re so busy.’

Gibson inclined his head, as if to say, that seems fair. Didn’t comment either way, but he was definitely smiling. Hickey hoped that was right and that he wasn’t laughing at him. 

When they came to kiss again Hickey tried to forget about Christmas, to just enjoy the warmth and the feeling of pleasure coiling in his stomach. But a horrible feeling pervaded. Must be what guilt felt like. He didn’t much like it. Meaning to have them on more even footing once more he worked the hand up Gibson’s thigh and palmed him there where his cock was stiffening in his trousers. Pushed him back, to lay down on the bunk, crawled between his legs. ‘You can have this as a first instalment, though,’ he said, making short work of Gibson’s trousers. He left them mostly up as a sop to fate, although they’d have a bloody hard time explaining themselves were someone to walk in.

‘Oh - oh,’ Gibson gasped, as Hickey gave him a tentative lick, then bit down on his own hand to quiet himself.

Hickey let Gibson’s hips tilt up, eager for more. Hickey lapped at the head and then took it into his mouth, giving himself a moment to get used to it. Had been a while, and he didn’t do this often and he’d never cared for it particularly. It had never been a labour of love. But now he had Gibson’s cock hardening in his mouth he found it pleasant enough, more than pleasant when he reached down and took himself in hand. He ran his tongue down the underside and heard Gibson hiss above him, felt a hand move to his shoulder and then pull tentatively at his hair. 

Well, let him, he put up with enough himself. Hickey took him down further, then further again, swallowed around his length.

‘I’m - ah, Cornelius-’ a whisper, strained.

That soon? He’d only just started to enjoy himself as well. There was a sort of bliss to it, just moving himself back and forth, nice and open around Billy’s cock pulling at himself with the same rhythm. He gagged, nearly, a tear trickled down his face and Billy moaned.

Kept up at it, though, feeling his jaw start to ache from the lack of practice. He could hear the slick, wet noises he was making sucking Billy and more distantly those of his own cock. He took a hand to Billy’s balls and then stroked that bit behind them, and Billy jerked up into him. The head of his own cock rubbed into the sheets and he was surprised at how hard he was, how much he wanted it. Oh, that felt good. He slurped around Billy, took him down even further than he’d thought he could, gagging when Billy hit that spot at the back of his throat but swallowing him deeper. He stripped his own cock faster, spurred on by the obscene noises Billy was getting out of him.

Billy’s grasp grew insistent and he could feel Billy’s toes curling into the bedsheet. Hickey wondered if he should pull off, but then reconsidered - he didn’t want it all over his face. And besides, the idea of swallowing it up had its appeal. Billy’s stones tightened in his hand and then Billy was making a strangled moan and Hickey felt his mouth flood with warmth, a bitter burst.  
When he’d swallowed as much as he could he pulled off, felt a little leak from the corner of his mouth and wiped it away with the back of his hand. Would’ve been an appropriate christening for one of the handkerchiefs. They lay crumpled at the side of the bunk, forgotten in the rush.

He lay with his head on Gibson’s thigh, smiling up at him like a cat. Gibson’s eyes were still closed in bliss. Hickey found himself realising that he was pleased; he was happy at Gibson’s pleasure. To his mounting dismay, he wasn’t even all that impatient for Gibson to reciprocate if it meant disturbing him. Christ, was he growing soft in his old age? In his heart, that was; his cock still bobbed upright in his trousers. 

Gibson hummed and looked down at him, sleepy. He stroked at Hickey’s hair and Hickey felt very, very contented, even as a part of him bristled at being used so. He was nobody’s pet. ‘You liked it?’ he asked, then instantly regretted it because it was a stupid question and now he looked stupid and worse, clinging like a girl just relieved of her maidenhead.

‘Very much so,’ Gibson murmured, and Hickey couldn’t chastise himself too much. Gibson’s rhythmic touch stilled him, calming and soft. ‘Do you want me to finish you off?’

He was comfortable, but the offer was standing and he’d look a right fool if he refused. He didn’t want to refuse, either. ‘Yeah, go on, then.’

Gibson smiled down at him and then drew him up into his arms, pulled him on top and slotted one of his long thighs between Hickey’s legs. His trousers were still dislodged, indecent. They moved together, Hickey’s breath hitching as the friction brought him closer to his own climax. Then Gibson began to unbutton him, and oh, that was nice, a warm hand worked into his trousers and pulling him off. He huffed against Gibson’s chest, buried his face against his shoulder. His crisis started to build almost shamefully quickly, warmth pooling at the base of his belly and everything tightening. With a shudder he came like that, all into Gibson’s hand and pressed close against him.

They stayed like that, curled against each other, long after was prudent. But he couldn’t bring himself to pull away. Only when his hand, wandering, made contact with those handkerchiefs did he begin to come to himself once more. He sat up and straightened himself out, brushing his hair back with his hand where it had all fallen into his face. Much as he’d enjoyed himself, he’d been left with quite a problem. Now he had to find a bloody present.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hickey gives Gibson his present, with mixed results - a meeting in the great cabin goes wildly off topic - dresses are discussed - and Commander Fitzjames finds himself stranded on Terror for a night.

Hickey stepped rather shyly into Gibson’s berth, though not without tremendous expectation; he was grinning ear to ear. The lamplight loved him, gave him a rosy glow - Gibson was minded of mischievous goblins he’d been taught about as a child. For once he wasn’t pinched enough to look like a changeling.

‘All right, Billy?’ he said, and let himself in, closed the curtain behind him. 

‘What do you want, then?’ he said, mock-severely, but couldn’t keep the fondness out of his voice. ‘Haven’t you somewhere you ought to be?’

‘Leave off, I get enough of that from our Sergeant Tozer,’ Hickey said. He made a rude gesture that suggested exactly what he thought of the good sergeant.

Gibson snorted. ‘And anyone else who ever sets eyes on you.’

‘Don’t expect it from you though,’ Hickey said. He had a bundle or something in one hand, was keeping it close to his leg so that Gibson couldn’t see more than the occasional movement of dull fabric. ‘Speaking of old Tosshead, what do you think of him and Mr Armitage? Do you think they’re having it off together?’

Gibson blinked. It startled him, but he gave it serious thought, because Hickey was fairly observant as well as given to wild flights of fancy. ‘I - no, I shouldn’t think so Cornelius. Tom can be a bit of a girl sometimes but he’s just shy. Regular as they come, I reckon. And that’s not to mention the sergeant. Wishful thinking on your part.’

Hickey frowned. ‘Why would it be wishful thinking?’

Gibson shrugged. ‘They’d make a good-looking pair. That’s why it occurred to you, isn’t it? Got a bit heated in your hammock one night. Have you just come here to bother me about your self-pollution?’

He scowled. ‘Not my self-pollution.’ But then he shook off his bad humour and launched into a speech in the overexcited but somewhat apprehensive manner of a child who’d been coached in a party piece by doting parents. ‘I’ve got your present here. It’s not much, really, but I put a bit of thought into it and I thought you might like it. Well, I hope you like it.’

Gibson raised his eyebrows and leaned back on his bed, putting his mending aside. ‘I’m sure I will.’ 

Hickey fidgeted, passed the lumpen shape wrapped in cloth about in his hands. 

‘You - you might have to hand it to me for me to open it.’

‘Yeah, I know. I was getting to that.’ Still he held the present close to his chest for a moment more, and then with a solemn start laid it upon the bedsheet. His eagerness was infectious, and Gibson leant over to undo the string holding it together. 

An item tumbled out. He stared at it.

‘Is this... soap?’

‘Well, it’s not just soap, is it,’ Hickey said, petulant and a little anxious-sounding.

He was right; it was not quite soap, although it had definitely once been. It has started out as the standard issue sort the purser would dole out chunks of every so often, but now one side had a curious, viscous sheen to it. Which was in distinct danger of getting all over the bedclothes. Puzzlingly, it smelt ever so vaguely of lemon, although that in combination with the natural scent was no real joy. 

‘No, it’s - is it my soap? I’ve been wondering where that went.’ He picked it up and looked at it more closely. ‘What’ve you done to it? Why’s it gone funny?’ There were strange markings carved into the solid side, seemingly indecipherable - Gibson turned it over in his hands, feeling little flakes come off into his lap, trying to avoid getting himself too oily. ‘Is it… my initials?’ They didn’t look much like initials, but they looked as much like them as anything else. Gibson knew Hickey had a quick mind for reading, but perhaps his writing left more to be desired. 

Hickey muttered something. 

Gibson had a go at smoothing things over, though in his heart he was more than a little dismayed. Irritated, even. The cosy atmosphere that had surrounded them had well nigh evaporated, replaced with a terseness they’d not felt in a long while. ‘Look, I don’t mind about the initials, you’re out of practice writing, but my own soap? And what have you put on it? It’s getting everywhere.’

‘I put some of the lemon juice onto it, thought I’d make it all nice for you. You know, fancy soap with bergamot and lemon oil, you see it advertised everywhere.’

Gibson closed his eyes for a moment and steeled himself not to interrupt. Hickey was looking increasingly angry in that puzzled way of his, the same as he did when Mr Darlington told him to redo a particularly shabby piece of caulking.

‘And I said it’s not your initials, it’s a ship. You must be bloody blind. I can sodding well write, you know I can.’

‘Well, you can’t draw for toffee, then. I said I didn’t mind. I’d only appreciate it if you didn’t relocate my belongings without telling me.’ And then give them back, as if he wouldn’t be able to tell.

Hickey had the grace to look a little abashed, but mostly he looked furious. Enough so that even though he tried to pull his sad face, all big eyes and piteous peaked eyebrows, his real expression showed through. ‘Fine. I won’t,’ he gritted out.

‘You could have told me, you know, if you couldn’t get a present. Now I’ve just got less soap than before.’

‘Well, I’m sorry I tried now. Since you hate it.’ Hickey turned away, his face mean and hard. But he loitered at the door, always unable to leave without saying his piece. ‘I’ve tried to please you and gotten ill-used, that’s what I reckon, Mr Gibson.’

‘Oh, come off it,’ Gibson said, needled, ‘you stole my own soap and now you’re making out as if I’ve deflowered you and left you in the family way.’

Hickey scowled for a second, then brightened. Gibson tried not to be too optimistic about it. ‘You could swap it with Mr Armitage’s soap,’ Hickey said hopefully.

‘Go on, tell me how I’d explain that,’ Gibson said.

‘He’s that dozy, he’ll never notice anyway.’

‘Of course, and maybe he’ll think they’re his initials too and he’s got a secret admirer. He’s deaf, not blind.’

‘Oh, don’t you go sticking up for him.’ Hickey’s voice had gone very cold, as it did when he was in a real mood. Dangerous. Gibson had always been reminded of brittle ice, the glassy and thin kind with its dark waters beneath. Drown a man in minutes. And yet, the sense of unfairness nagged at him and he was not content to let Hickey fester.

‘I’m not sticking up for him, I’m being quite reasonable. He’s done you no harm, and works a damn sight harder.’

‘You would,’ Hickey was seething. ‘You would say that. I’ve seen the two of you, gossiping like fishwives. Got your eye on him, pretty colleen like that would give it up easy enough anyhow.’

‘Cornelius, that’s -’ Gibson didn’t know where to start. ‘He’s not even Irish, and - hang on, aren’t you Irish?’

Hickey’s face shifted almost imperceptibly, as if he’d been calculating some irritating sum. ‘Got a taste for us, haven’t you.’

‘I’ve a taste for you and you know it well enough. Don’t read into something that’s not there, it’s beneath us both.’ Billy closed his eyes again. If he’d been a praying man he would have asked God to give him strength. ‘Just - Cornelius, just leave me the soap and stop stealing things. How much do you steal out of the stores, anyway? Usually?’

‘Don’t see why that matters,’ Hickey said, sulky. ‘No more than anyone else. You’re just trying to make me feel bad.’

Gibson looked down at the soap, which he’d clenched so hard that his hand was greased. ‘You know I’m not. I’m glad for the thought, but until you can be sensible I’d rather you left off. I’ve only eyes for you, whatever you think.’

‘Oh.’ Hickey seemed vexed at the display of affection, which had taken the wind out of his argument. His being seemed to deflate a little, and he edged closer, with perhaps a smidge of repentance in his step. ‘Well. Yeah, all right. Move over.’

He crawled beside Gibson onto the bunk, took the soap from his hands and put the wretched thing on the highest shelf where they’d not have to look at it. 

‘You’ll get something else. That was only a present to get you warmed up.’ He screwed his face up. ‘I’ve thought of something better, actually. I’ll get you a really good present.’ Gibson didn’t know how to ask him to please, not do that, without setting him off again, so settled for silence.

Hickey took Gibson’s soapy hand in one of his own. ‘You’ll see.’ Gibson let his shoulders un-tense and tried to enjoy the moment of closeness. At least with the Christmas season upon them nobody paid as much attention, they could spend more time together as everyone was distracted by the performance. But of course, Hickey had other thoughts. ‘Now, to this play lark. I’ve a fine idea of how we might have a bit of fun there.’

***

Jopson watched the hail lash against the curved window of the main cabin, thick snow beating against the panes of glass, and rubbed his hands together. Wasn’t cold in here, not yet, but the Antarctic had taught him better. What it hadn’t taught him - what, indeed, no seafaring had yet, or perhaps ever could have, prepared him for - was what to do with the rumour he’d just heard. He told himself he was not one for gossip, not really, but the murmurings from belowdecks really were getting too much to bear. Tales of scandal ever more ridiculous - and yet. Well. He found himself wondering. 

The officers were at their meeting. Smallish, this time, just Crozier, the lieutenants bar Irving, who was up on deck, and Mr Blanky. And of course Commander Fitzjames. It seemed good-natured enough - no looming catastrophe. He steadied his face and served them all tea without being conspicuous, though behind his level expression he had a veritable list of thoughts all jostling for priority. And he couldn’t help it if Commander Fitzjames, arrived over from _Erebus_ not a half hour before and looking very pleased with himself, brought the damn thing up.

‘I say, chaps, now we’ve handled the main thrust, I wonder if I might have a moment. There’s a rather odd rumour circulating about the ship, and I wondered if the Terrors have been muttering the same.’

‘Rumour? By God, man, it wouldn’t be a Discovery Service voyage without a few fool bastards spreading rumours, pay them no mind.’ Crozier seemed eager to be rid of Fitzjames, and in a brief moment of eye contact Jopson knew he’d be asking for something more fortifying than tea after he’d gone. 

‘What do they say, sir?’ Hodgson asked, and Crozier looked as if he could’ve murdered him.

‘Well, they, ah - they seem to claim that - that there’s something Popish about the play. And having adapted it myself I was rather concerned to know if the Terrors thought the same. It didn’t seem Popish to me. And of course Mr Dickens isn’t a Papist,’ he added, uncertainly.

‘What part of the thing is at issue?’ Hogson asked. He seemed to have gone a little cold in the face, had stopped sipping at his tea. In another man Jopson would call it the first signs of alarm, but Hodgson was an odd fish and his expressions didn’t seem to signify. Perhaps it was just that no one much wanted accusations of Popery flying around between officers. Certainly not this early on; perhaps if they were at the tail-end of their voyage in a year or two with no more appetite for theatricals and a need for other entertainment.

‘They say-’ Fitzjames was about to gesticulate, then seemed to run out of steam. ‘Well, I’ve only heard it secondhand from Dundy. I really can’t make head or tail of the thing, but the men certainly seem vehement enough.’

‘I suppose we could ask the men themselves, sir,’ Lieutenant Little said, ‘but they don’t tend to be very forthcoming about such matters.’

‘Jopson,’ Hodgson started, in a curious tone Jopson didn’t much like.

Jopson pursed his lips and suppressed the urge to roll his eyes at the wall. He’d been looking for the sugar tongs, which seemed to have gone inexplicably missing. He turned brightly and smiled. ‘Yes, sir?’

‘You’re - well, you might know better than us. Why do the men think the play is a piece of Papistry?’

‘That would be the three ghosts, sir, I believe. And there is a consistent belief that Mr Dickens himself is Roman.’

‘Why would three ghosts be Papist?’ Crozier asked, sounding entertained. He was the happiest Jopson had seen him in weeks, even as the others looked increasingly baffled. He leant back in his chair and surveyed the rest of the room with an incredulous smile playing at the corners of his mouth. 

‘Well, I couldn’t say, sir. But I imagine it has something to do with the Trinity.’

‘Just a moment,’ Fitzjames said, puzzled, ‘we believe in the Trinity as well.’ _Don’t we_ , he wanted to ask, but restrained himself.

‘By Christ,’ Little said, sounding amused, ‘we are supposed to believe in all that, aren’t we. I must say I can never keep it straight.’

Everybody looked to each other, as if to say, _thank God Irving is up on watch_. He might’ve elucidated the finer points of the theology but frankly, that was the last thing they needed just then.

For a moment the only sound was the gentle clink of teacups as a few of the officers attempted to regain some composure, having been exposed so sharply in their ignorance.  
Then Hodgson seemed to stir, a delighted triumphant glint in his eye. ‘Ah, but that’s balderdash! There are in actuality four ghosts in the play, so we might easily prove this whole thing wrong.’

‘Oh, they know, sir. They think the fourth ghost is the Pope.’ 

Hodgson frowned. ‘Rather a leap, don’t you think?’ He was met with blank stares. 

‘Which ghost is the fourth ghost?’ asked Little. ‘There are only two in the parts I’m in,’ he said, in an attempt to save face. ‘I meant to read the whole thing, but - well.’

‘I suppose the Pope would be Marley,’ Crozier said, slapping his hand on the table, ‘which, having been my business partner, and a miserly one too, I can vouch is not the case. No, gentlemen,’ he said, looking around with irritation, forestalling the question which various someones were clearly screwing up the courage to ask, ‘not the Pope. I am playing Mr Scrooge, remember.’

He caught the tail end of someone whispering ‘Isn’t he the first ghost?’ and begged Jopson with his eyes for a glass of whisky. Or, failing that, to fashion some emergency which would definitively end the meeting. 

‘On that note, Francis,’ Fitzjames broached, and they could all see Crozier inwardly wince, ‘we’ve realised we rather need Fairholme on watch, the night of the play. So we’ll have to find you a new blushing bride; from your crew, I fear.’

‘We all have roles already,’ Little said hurriedly. All men at the table seemed to concur. 

‘As do we - well, apart from the obvious, but it’d be a brave man who tried to get Sir John into a dress,’ Fitzjames laughed. ‘Into that dress even more so.’ 

Everybody tittered politely enough, apart from Mr Blanky, whose cackle unmistakably cut through the veil of propriety. ‘If his monkey can play a breeches role, she might be at ease back in a dress.’ 

Crozier looked down before smiling forcedly. ‘I’d rather not be jilted by a monkey.’ Those who knew of Crozier’s private misfortunes before they’d set sail - which, given the nature of rumour on a ship, officers as well as men, was certainly the majority of the table - suddenly found themselves very busy, gazing intently at charts and lists and notes and the like. ‘Jopson.’ Jopson silently cursed himself for having shaved that morning. ‘One of the stewards would serve just as well. Not yourself, of course - you’ll be needed-’ Jopson inclined his head ever so slightly in thanks ‘-but one of the other lads. You can work it out between you, can’t you?’

‘Yes, sir. I’m sure they’ll be very keen.’ He was so used to saying everything in the great cabin with a straight face, acquiescing to all sorts without pause for thought, that he found it quite a laugh when Fitzjames beamed at that. Not bloody likely. Jopson wondered which of his subordinates he’d have to tightlace and boot onto the stage with a sort of visceral pleasure. 

‘Well, gentlemen, I think we’re finished here. I’ve kept you long enough. I’m sure you have much more interesting business to be about.’ 

They all rose, except for Fitzjames, who had rather an awkward expression on his face.

‘Dashed beastly outside, Francis. I’m not sure I’ll be able to get back to _Erebus_ in that.’ 

Jopson expected Crozier to look annoyed; certainly, he complained enough about the man every time he hosted dinner, every time they had to do anything, in fact. But a strange look passed across his face.

‘Then you’ll stay here this evening, perhaps the night too if it doesn’t let up. It’s no great hardship.’ 

Jopson loitered, even after the others had left, expecting an order for more tea or perhaps a spare nightshirt. But instead Crozier only added, ‘You may leave us, Jopson. Get some rest yourself - Fitzjames here has had worse on his travels, and I’m sure he can be persuaded to while away the hours telling me about it. We’ll have a word in private before he retires.’

Jopson frowned. Something seemed off, Crozier a little too merry even without his customary drink in hand (even as Jopson thought it, Crozier edged towards the decanter). But nobody could argue with an evening off, especially at the Captain’s order. 

He stayed listening at the door a moment or two after shutting it behind him, but heard only the sound of the key turning in the lock.

‘A little unnecessary, don’t you think?’ Fitzjames asked, amused in that maddening mock-patrician way of his. ‘Unless you’re planning to ravish me.’

Crozier went utterly still for just a hair’s breadth too long. He could feel the fairness of his complexion betraying him, heating up at the collar. ‘Jopson would certainly have a thing or two to say about that. No, if you must know-’ he grappled for the right words, before finally settling, ‘I don’t want Lieutenant Irving bustling in. The man’s a fine sailor, but he has God’s own gift at ruining a pleasant conversation.’

‘He’d have to knock first, wouldn’t he? Unless you run a rather... loose ship,’ Fitzjames said. 

Crozier couldn’t for the life of him tell whether that was supposed to be insulting or not, but his first instinct was to take it as an affront.

Fitzjames made himself more comfortable in his seat, and poured himself another cup of tea as if it were his own cabin. Which Crozier supposed it was, for the duration of the evening. He felt suddenly like a hapless midshipman again, lost in the glow of some brighter lad, both admiring and resenting it keenly. 

It didn’t help that Fitzjames did everything with a practiced ease, a deftness in dealing with others that was so alien to Crozier. Crozier sat down beside him, whisky in hand, and felt like nothing so much as a sack of potatoes. 

‘I take it you don’t seriously want to hear of my travels. I know how it wounds you so, to hear of other men’s fortune.’

Crozier frowned. ‘I’m no miser. I merely resent you peacocking at my table. You must admit, James, it isn’t really the done thing.’

A flick of his hair did nothing to allay Crozier’s point, although afterwards Fitzjames certainly did look a little put out. ‘We all use the gifts we have. Forgive me if I’ve treated the wardroom rather more like a dinner party than one might.’ On the verge of an apology, he spoiled it by saying, ‘Besides, you said yourself that Irving is a bore. I at least provide entertainment. Talking of the thing, your crew seem to be awfully serious about the play; I’ve never seen a group of men look so uneasy at the thought of wearing a dress!’

Crozier smiled, more genuinely this time. ‘You’d said you’d enjoyed it as a mid. You’re a braver man than me, even the idea of it is -’ he shook his head. ‘It’s bad enough being onstage in a pair of trousers. No, we could do with some mids for the ladies… it’s usually a blessing not to have the infernal children, but they’d come in handy here.’

The levity of the discussion drew them both in, and Fitzjames inclined a touch closer to Crozier, almost conspiratorial. He could imagine him well, an impish midshipman with a fan and long skirts, quite ready to play the coquette or the haughty queen at a moment’s notice.

‘To tell you the truth, I rather enjoyed it. I was the very talk of Malta, I’ll have you know.’

‘I’ll bet you were,’ Crozier said, and leaned forward. ‘And I spot your game - so I will be regaled with travels after all.’ Travels and self-promotion, at the same time. What a master of it Fitzjames was. He watched the man, all lean lines and confident postures. He felt it, then, the simmering heat in his belly he’d come to regard as a curse, a warning that would only yield pain if he indulged it. Yet he wanted to prod at it, and had always been unable to stop himself. 

He found himself growing bold with the drink and continuing, in a far more jovial tone than he felt, ‘Though I’m sure you made a spectacle of yourself in that dress. As vain as any society lady. And you’ve not stopped parading yourself like quite another kind of lady in a dockyard since we left.’

Fitzjames coughed into his drink. Surprisingly, no outburst was immediately forthcoming. Crozier watched the flicker of his eyelashes, the creeping blush against his cheek and the strong set of his jaw. A fine maid and a fine man, he must admit it to himself. 

‘You seem rather obsessed with the image, Francis. Ladies, dresses. A man might gather you were hankering after something.’

Crozier was taken aback. He considered it seriously for a moment. He’d told himself that he was through with all that, all of it. Men and women. He had chosen to believe that bitterness and ashes had suffocated that part of him, along with no small amount of drink. But now it was apparent that he had only silenced it for a short while. It had been conducting itself howsoever it pleased in some determinedly unobserved corner of his mind.

Fitzjames raised his eyebrows. ‘Well, it won’t do - I’m a man, and if you entertain some vision of bending me over it certainly won’t be in petticoats.’

A vehement denial had formed on Crozier’s lips before he’d even thought about it. He stopped himself. Might there - might there be something in it? If spoken to any other man it would certainly be an invitation. To, as it were, bend him over. But Crozier could not, would not, embarrass himself so, for Fitzjames could surely not be suggesting it. Not to him. He was disliked - prickly - quite fermented - surely not the type of man Fitzjames was used to having. If, indeed, he was used to having men at all, although that wouldn’t be entirely a surprise. Perhaps he just enjoyed preposterous jokes - yes, that was it, another laugh at his expense.

‘Really,’ Fitzjames said, haughty and irritated, ‘either throw me out or get to it. Don’t just sit there in silence.’

‘When you say - get to it -’

Fitzjames rolled his eyes, stood up, and began to undo the front of his trousers. ‘Do you require a written manual too, or will this suffice?’ His underclothes - oh, god, Crozier could see the outline of his prick. ‘I’ve seen you looking. At least have the damned decency to acknowledge when you’re ogling another man’s cock, Francis.’

The doubt that had been gnawing most fervently at the back of Crozier’s mind abated and mingled first with relief, and then with something more primal. 

‘I thought you were just blustering, as you do…’ he trailed off. He was about to say in front of all the men, but he supposed Fitzjames was not showing this off in the great cabin back on _Erebus_. Probably. He reached out to touch Fitzjames’ thigh, mouth slightly agape.

The feel of warmth through the fabric brought Crozier somewhat to himself - he reminded himself that he was a captain, the most powerful man on the ship, the hero of the Antarctic (albeit not quite as handsome as Captain Ross, but indeed, who might be), and that as such he ought to show a little more vigour. 

He stood up and moved a hand into Fitzjames’ trousers, crowded him against the window. Anyone outside in the darkness would be able to see them silhouetted in the lamplight - but then who would be outside. The mere thought gave Crozier an illicit thrill. Let the elements watch him fuck Fitzjames into a mess. That was more like it. 

He had a hand firmly on him now, was tugging at Fitzjames’ nice pink cock, warm and hard for him. Fitzjames tipped his head back, bit his lip and breathed hard through his nose. Crozier continued until he got to a point where Fitzjames might be a bit more malleable, then slowed and loosened his grip.

‘What is it now,’ Fitzjames complained, eyes fluttering open.

‘I thought we might do something a bit better,’ Crozier said, trying to stop his mouth from twitching into a smile. ‘I believe you did suggest-’ He brought his other hand to Fitzjames’ arse, pert and already half bared by the tangle of his loosened trousers. 

Fitzjames moaned an agreement. ‘Your cabin?’

Crozier did allow himself to smile, then, wickedly, pleased to have the upper hand. ‘The desk ought to do, don’t you think? It’s probably more comfortable than that bunk, anyhow. Go on,’ he said, lightly tapping Fitzjames on the arse, ‘over you go.’

He could not decipher the expression that crossed Fitzjames’ face for the merest moment - pleased, irritated? - but he knew eagerness when he saw it. Fitzjames bent over the great table with nary a word, and Crozier pulled his trousers right down with one sharp tug. It was a very pretty arse, he had to admit. The whole escapade had a feeling of unreality to it. To give a name to his pining - and to conquer it - all in the same evening - well, there were worse ways to spend a winter’s night.

He touched the curve of a buttock with the reverence another man might give a relic. 

‘Will you - _hurry up_ \- some of us are rather aching for this. First you need to -’

‘I’m aware, thank you,’ Crozier said. ‘It has been a long time, but not long enough that I’ve forgotten the mechanics.’ He looked at the table, casting around for something to ease the way; he didn’t imagine Fitzjames would be best pleased with butter.

‘I know you know how to do it,’ Fitzjames said, ‘I’d be rather stupid making a pass like that if I weren’t aware of your proclivities. No, I have a salve in my trouser pocket. For the hands, but, you know.’

Crozier was glad Fitzjames could not see the relief on his face. It would have been hard to explain any great hunk of missing butter to Jopson. He reached round - oddly intimate, it felt like picking Fitzjames’ pocket - and soon found the tin, coated a couple of fingers and stroked up against the pucker of his hole. ‘We haven’t all that much time,’ he said, ‘but I’ll - I’ll -’

‘What, you’ll be gentle? Honestly, Francis, at this juncture I’d prefer if you just got on with it.’

‘All right, all right.’ He moved in soft motions around the hole, got his finger in. A very, very faint muscle memory provided the right angles - it had been a great deal more enjoyable than sextant practice to Mr Crozier, midshipman, and a select few fellows - and he began to fuck into Fitzjames. Fitzjames pushed back onto him as he worked in a second finger. 

He himself, thank Christ, had managed a respectable erection. He gave himself a tug for luck. The fear that he would not be able to perform dissipated as he heard Fitzjames’ uncouth noises, felt him clench on his fingers. 

‘Good God, please, just-’ Fitzjames panted ‘- like that, yes, now stop dallying-’

Crozier pulled his fingers out none too gently and greased himself up, pushed against Fitzjames. If he wanted this, by God, he’d get his way. The familiar clutch around him sent waves of pleasure right through him, awakened feelings he’d thought long buried. Christ, why had he given buggery up all those years ago? True, being both Irish and a casual sodomite was no ideal combination for a man looking to make his way. But- but this-

He pushed himself fully in and Fitzjames veritably squealed. The vision of him bent over the desk, fists clenching amidst the maps and cups all askew about him, drew him to new heights of rapture. 

‘Girded like a racehorse, I knew it all along…’ Fitzjames was murmuring, in between grunts, and although it was complimentary Crozier decided he’d had quite enough of Fitzjames’ mouth. He pushed his fingers up against Fitzjames’ lips, and Fitzjames took them in eagerly, licking and sucking at them as if it were a cock he’d got in there. Crozier filed that away for later; he hoped there’d be a later. 

His thrusts grew harder, more enthusiastic - Fitzjames would have bruises where his thighs met the table, and crumbs over his pretty jacket - and Fitzjames knocked a bit of china off the table, judging by the smash.

‘Christ-’ the heat and the movement and the passion of it all overwhelmed Crozier, and he came with a jolt. He pulled out of Fitzjames and watched with satisfaction as his own seed dribbled out of Fitzjames’ arse, leaned draped over his back, exhausted. He removed his fingers from Fitzjames’ mouth and closed his eyes, catching the last embers of his pleasure.

Fitzjames whined under him. ‘Fucking - Christ - don’t stop _now_ -’ and Crozier obligingly got a couple of fingers back inside him, the way now slick and loose, eager for him. He felt Fitzjames shift and get a hand on his own cock to pull himself off to the rhythm of Crozier’s fingers, and then felt him shudder and clench, stutter and go still beneath him.

‘Well,’ he said, when they had collected themselves somewhat. 

‘Well?’ Fitzjames actually chuckled, albeit weakly. ‘You’ll bugger a man like that and all you can say is well?’

‘If you’re looking for compliments,’ Crozier said, pulling himself up properly and stretching his aching muscles, ‘I thought we’d established that I’m not the man for them.’  
Fitzjames turned his head - he seemed a little rueful, but that might well be at the shards of china by his foot. 

‘No, I suppose you’re right. Besides,’ he said with a grin, ‘I get them well enough elsewhere.’ At Crozier’s downcast expression, he quickly added, ‘No, you silly fool, I was talking in generalities. My virtue is quite safe over on _Erebus_. To which, previously, I would have said more’s the pity.’

If a little smile escaped Crozier’s lips, well, it had been a pleasing evening, and this indeed was pleasing news to round it off. Fitzjames mopped at himself with a handkerchief produced from some pocket or other and pulled his trousers back up, turned to finally face Crozier. You would not be able to tell the man had just been buggered senseless by the way he leaned alluringly against the table, as if paused in the act of a brief post-dinner riposte. But his face was ever so slightly flushed, his stock a little damp with sweat. Crozier suddenly found the urge to kiss him irresistible. 

He leaned up and gave Fitzjames a peck, quick before the courage could desert him. But to his delight Fitzjames kissed back - awkward as two boys fresh to the game, but sweet. They looked at each other for a few seconds, before Fitzjames made to leave, rattling the knob of the locked door. Suddenly he looked lanky and ungainly as a boy after a growth spurt. Crozier felt something surge in his chest.

‘Good - good evening, James.’

Fitzjames looked back, key in hand. ‘Goodnight, Francis. I shall see you tomorrow, before I leave.’ 

Crozier turned away from the door, partly so that Fitzjames would not see him blushing and partly to take stock of the damage they’d done. ‘All right, James,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’ He sounded a little preoccupied; no, Jopson would not be best pleased about that china.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our boys were sadly absent from this chapter - but Armitage and Tozer will very much reappear next time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A storm looms in the pantry - Armitage prepares for his stage debut - and the audience for his costume fitting is not as envisaged.

The three of them stared at the pile of red fabric, where Jopson had laid it out. It crinkled in the low light as if it could’ve once been beautiful, but there was no mistaking the worn, pieced bodice and stains that none of them wanted to think too closely on. 

‘Not me,’ Armitage said quickly.

The other two stared at him with narrowed eyes. ‘It isn’t me,’ Jopson said. ‘Captain Crozier excused me. As I’ll be too busy, and I’ve a part at the end besides.’

‘Make Genge do it.’ Gibson said. He ran a hand across the fabric of the dress, then quickly pulled it back and almost shot back across the small space, shoulders hunched up against the beams. ‘He hasn’t even turned up.’

‘He’s indisposed,’ Jopson said. His unfailingly polite gaze gave nothing much away, though privately behind the eyes Armitage thought he saw a flash of irritation. Perhaps he was reading too much into it. The phrase did seem to ring a bell, though.

‘I thought that was a thing ladies got,’ said Armitage. 

Jopson looked at him with just a touch of pity. ‘No, Tom, stomach trouble. Loose.’

‘He’s never,’ Armitage said, a bit envious despite everything. ‘I’ve been stopped up since we left port. I haven’t been in three days.’

‘All right, thank you,’ Jopson said. ‘You know, on reflection, Tom, I prefer it when you don’t say anything.’

‘He might be better by the play,’ Gibson said. ‘He’s just lying down, he hasn’t got anything better to do than learn the lines. Give him a powder and shove him on stage.’

Jopson gave what might’ve been a huff. ‘I’ll not be risking putting him in front of the Captain-’

‘That’s what the powder’s for,’ Gibson muttered. ‘If you give him enough of that Dover’s he’ll be as backed up as Tom here.’

‘- nor wasting supplies for the sake of your decorum, Mr Gibson. Lord knows you’ve little enough of it swanning about with-’ Jopson hastily broke off, glanced at Armitage and then pursed his lips. ‘Well, it ain’t bothered you before, is all I’m saying. So now’s not the time to start. Come on now, one of you has to wear it, or do you want to draw lots?’

‘Tom’ll do it,’ Gibson said.

‘No I won’t,’ Armitage said indignantly, ‘why should I? I said first it wasn’t me, and you touched it and I haven’t touched it, and all the lieutenants will be on stage and you won’t have owt to do, you said it yourself, and I’ll be run off my feet.’

Gibson started, ‘Well, I’ve a beard-’ 

‘I could grow a beard. I’m hairier than you are. And that’s what makes it funny, anyway, the lieutenants have moustaches and that.’

‘Look, Tom, I’m not doing it. So you’ll just have to.’ Gibson towered over Armitage, but didn’t meet his eyes. Coward. Armitage looked to Jopson for aid - he always did his washing on time, he’d been good as indispensable to the gunroom, surely Jopson would recognise his value behind the scenes? 

But Jopson yawned and said, ‘Well, that’s sorted nicely. Now you’ve learned to speak, Mr Armitage, you can start by learning some lines. Try it on for size, too, you might have to make some…’ Jopson here assessed his body, as dispassionate as could be, ‘slight alterations.’

‘I won’t fit at all. I’m all wrong, he’s a bit taller but he’s narrower than me, my shoulders won’t go in it,’ Tommy said plaintively. It wasn’t his fault that under normal circumstances he didn’t say much. Usually Jopson appreciated that. ‘It’ll be all saggy at the chest, too, I’ll look stupid!’

Jopson scowled at him. ‘We’re done messing around with this, I’m not arguing about it. Take the dress and try it on, Tommy no-tits.’ 

Both Armitage and Gibson stared. Armitage opened his mouth to say something, but nothing came out, and while he stood gaping like a fish Jopson thrust the dress and a pile of petticoats into his arms. It billowed about, slipping in his grasp, and when he finally got the pile of fabric to compress enough that he could peer up over it Jopson was making to leave.

‘I’ll have no complaints and you’ll have that dress scrubbed and lines learnt, do you hear? I’ve enough to do without listening to your yapping.’

Armitage thought that his previous policy had been the wiser one, and shut up. Gibson gave him a victorious look. 

When Jopson had left, Armitage turned on him. ‘Right lot of help you were, thanks.’

Gibson just shrugged. ‘Sorry, Tom, but you’re not getting me into that thing. I’ll help you learn your lines, if you like?’

Armitage felt his lower lip wobble, just a little. He blinked rapidly. He’d better not have many sodding lines.

***

Putting the thing on was an effort in and of itself. Women had so _many_ layers. 

Later that evening, when most had gone to bed and the lamp cast a soft light into his cabin, he’d found himself looking at the thing afresh. He’d hidden it under his blankets at first so that he didn’t have to look at it, and it made an odd lump, but he felt bad. Although it was old it had clearly been beautiful once; the sort of thing his aunts or his cousins would have killed for, stared at in the windows of dress shops. Although the colour was a bit bold. 

He unfolded it with trepidation and laid it out atop his bedsheets. Perhaps it would fit, after all - the neck was wide and scooped, and it looked like its original owner had been stout and big-boned for a woman. He pictured it grazing her chest and shoulders and shimmering in a most pleasing fashion as she curtsied and swayed. The skirt had gathers about the waist and some pleating at the bust, and he imagined it would draw attention to the movements of its previous owner’s supple body. The sleeves were unfashionably large, it was true, but still.

But first the underthings. He went back and forth over whether to leave his clothes on underneath, but then it seemed - well, it would ruin the illusion - and he stripped off his trousers and shirt, and drawers too. Did it quick so he didn’t have to think about it too much.

The shift was near enough a man’s shirt anyhow, that wasn’t so strange. Although it sat unusually low across his chest and shoulders, he fancied the ruffles at the neck softened him out. Shame there was no corset to pull him in, but it couldn’t be helped.

The petticoats were easy enough to pull on over his head. These were not lovely, and bore the brunt of the staining. He imagined they’d seen more seamen ashore than in shipbound theatricals. But they’d have to do; besides, the petticoats would at least add some sort of roundness to his hips. That left the dress. 

Suddenly, he was overcome with a feeling he couldn’t, and didn’t want to, put a name to. He remembered, suddenly, his father helping his mother dress one morning when the sun was just rising, and there was still ice on the inside of the windows. He must have been very young, so young. He shut his eyes and imagined that he had someone else helping him get dressed; that he’d got up out of a warm shared bed on a clear frosty morning, shivering in his shift as a large, rough pair of hands gently laced him up at the back. They’d hold his waist, spreading warmth through his belly, coddle him and maybe plant a kiss at the soft curve of his shoulder. Yes. Maybe stroke up softly to his chest, or down to - well.

He smiled to himself and glanced more fondly upon the dress, swished his petticoats about him and listened to the soft noise they made as they gathered. Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad. He might look all right after all - then thought no, he might look lovely, mightn’t he? He slipped it on over his head too, rucked it down and smoothed the pleasing sweep of the skirts. It was heavier than he’d expected, a soft claret velvet. Worn and bald in places, but still. His shoulders were a bit of a tight squeeze, and his arms were a bit ropey and hairy, but he nonetheless hoped the overall effect might not be too bad. Might be quite nice. Certainly he felt nicer than he’d expected, liked the way the fabric clung to him. He thought, hopefully, that he might even have the colouring to carry off that red.

Then he caught sight of himself in the shaving mirror.

Christ. He looked terrible. It gaped as open as anything in the front, then pulled taut across his shoulders. He had to hunch forward so as not to burst open a seam. His chest hair curled up above the neckline, too, that very low neckline - he’d never seen it in a mirror like that before, of course he shaved dressed - and the shadow of a day’s stubble at his jaw did nothing to aid any illusion of womanhood. He couldn’t really see what he looked like below the chest but that might be for the best. 

And of course he was supposed to look stupid, of course that was the point, but he couldn’t help but feel disappointed. He wasn’t so fussed about looking like a woman - he’d never understood the desire some men felt to dress up as one - but now that he’d been forced into it some part of him had wanted to look pretty. He scowled up at his reflection from under his hair and tugged at the skirts, determined just to get the damned thing off. 

‘Someone’s up late, eh, Tommy?’

He stilled. It was Tozer’s voice, distinct from behind the curtain that separated his cabin from the outer world, and felt himself flush up as red as the dress.

‘Don’t come in!’ he hissed, trying to keep his voice down, then could have cursed himself. He couldn’t have said anything more likely to make Tozer come in.

‘Why, are you doing something you shouldn't,’ Tozer laughed, poking his head round the curtain, before coming to a standstill. ‘Fucking hell.’

‘It’s for the play,’ Armitage said miserably. ‘I didn’t want to but I had to, you know I can’t talk myself out of things.’

Tozer got himself fully into the berth, pulling the curtain as completely shut as was possible behind him. His mouth twitched and he snorted.

‘I know. You can say it.’

Tozer could hold himself no longer, and started to laugh. He did his best to keep it quiet but that just got him gasping, tears in his eyes. Armitage tried to laugh along with him.

‘Oh, I’m sorry, Tommy, I am sorry, don’t look so cross. It’s just -’ he looked at Armitage again and went off into another fit of the giggles. ‘You look fit to be tied, you really do.’

‘No need to rub it in, I know.’ Armitage sat down on the bed with a thump and a billow of dust from the petticoats. 

Tozer sat down next to him. ‘Christ, it’s just - you’re a nice looking bloke out of all that, I wouldn’t have thought you’d look that - peculiar.’

‘Yeah, all right, I’ve only got to wear it in front of everyone else.’

Something at the back of Armitage’s mind supplied that Tozer had just paid him a compliment, sort of, a bit. 

Tozer leaned back and fondly patted Armitage’s knee, or an approximation of where he thought it under the dress. It came closer to his thigh, and Armitage went very still. To his horror, he started to get hard, and he prayed the skirt and petticoats were heavy enough to hide it. Then Tozer started to grin again, and Armitage braced himself for whatever was coming next. ‘You know, you’re the first thing in skirts I’ve seen in a year,’ he said, and reached out to grasp him at the waist. That was bad enough, but Tozer promptly tried to stick a hand down his front. ‘Go on, give us a feel.’

The feel of Tozer’s broad, calloused hand against his chest made him shiver. ‘Hey, leave off, don’t,’ he said, anxious. He brought a hand to grasp at Tozer’s arm to try and pull him off, and only ended up getting himself further entangled. Tozer wrestled him back and he wriggled and kicked at him, grappled with Tozer’s strong arms and tried to get a knee in his stomach or groin.

‘Trying to get me in the balls?’ Tozer panted. Both were out of breath; Armitage could see the sheen of sweat at Tozer’s temple, his face close. ‘That’s not fair.’

‘Taking advantage of a lady,’ Armitage found himself saying, ‘not too fair either.’

‘Not quite a lady, are you,’ Tozer said, slowly sliding a hand up his leg under the skirts. First he gently gripped Tommy’s calf, then slowly ran his hand up along the inside of his thigh. Tommy was impossibly, achingly hard, and he thought wildly - he must know. He has to, this can’t just be a joke, surely. And then he thought, well, there’s only one way to find out, and leant up and kissed him.

Tozer groaned into his mouth, and tightened the hand on his leg. Oh, it was warm, and after the first moment of surprise Tozer kissed back. He pressed his whole body down against Tommy’s, and Tommy felt a hardness in Tozer’s trousers meeting his own. Tozer got a leg between his and it was blissful, the friction and the weight and the thought of this bold sergeant bearing down upon him, still dressed in his fine red jacket and hard for him. 

‘Sergeant Tozer -’

‘Sol,’ Tozer said, fondly, ‘that’ll be all right.’

‘Can you - Sol, can you -’ but he couldn’t bring himself to say it. Instead he took hold of Tozer’s wrist and moved his hand just a little, almost all the way up to his cock. He shivered with the anticipation of it, Tozer’s fingers ghosting so very close. 

He started trembling almost as soon as Tozer got a hold of him properly. It had been so long and he’d wanted this so much, hadn’t let himself dwell on it too much but it had been at the back of his mind for months, that deep-seated want he could never shake off whenever Tozer was around. He was too caught up in it to do anything other than clutch at Tozer’s shoulders and back, get a hand up under his jacket.

Tozer moved his lips to Tommy’s neck, kissed him there where the dress left him bare. 

‘Sol,’ he said urgently - he wanted to say it again - ‘I’m close, I’ll -’

Tozer kissed at his collarbone, and murmured, ‘Then do, there’s a good lad.’ And Tommy arched into him, eyes squeezed shut, and came with a gasp, felt his pleasure washing over him. Tozer coaxed him through, kissing and murmuring all the while, making him twitch and shudder, until Tommy had to whine and push him off his oversensitive cock. Much as he would have liked Tozer to keep touching him - there, or really anywhere.

‘Can I?’ he looked up at Tozer.

‘I should bloody well hope you would.’ The bunk was not big, but Tozer moved to rest on an elbow and lay beside Tommy and it was big enough for the two of them. Tommy tried to conjure up the fantasy of earlier but then shook it off - this was better, Tozer real and burning with desire beside him and tracing a sticky hand down his flank. 

He attacked the buttons of Tozer’s trousers with alacrity. His eyes widened when he brought out Tozer’s cock, a broad, flushed thing, big in his hand, and he took it in his grasp. Couldn’t believe he wasn’t dreaming - no, he was still in that sodding dress, and Tozer really was panting hard up against him, and he really did have Tozer in hand. He pulled at him, sped up just a bit, till Tozer was panting hard into his shoulder, breath hot and damp against his neck. All of Tozer shifted against him, eager for the touch, and Tommy could well have died right then and there. Although he’d rather not in the dress. He found a rhythm Tozer seemed to like and then kissed him again. Tozer mumbled something into Tommy’s mouth and then he was coming all over his fingers, pressed tightly up against him. Tozer rested his head back against Tommy’s shoulder, breathing hard. 

‘Christ.’ Tozer smiled up at him. ‘Been after that, have you?’ 

Tommy felt himself blush. He looked down and wiped his hand on the petticoats.

‘Mucky little hussy,’ Tozer said fondly.

In previous encounters Armitage usually preferred no endearments at all to being talked to like a woman. But it was, somehow, different with Tozer - Sol. He grinned at being allowed to whisper this name, to tuck it away for himself. ‘Help me get this bloody thing off,’ he said.

Tozer saluted, though his undone and rumpled jacket would never have passed muster in any official capacity. Armitage couldn’t believe he’d done it, that he’d got Tozer happy and drowsy, squashed into his bunk.

He let Tozer trace lines over his skin with his rough fingers, let him tug the dress over his head and pull off the petticoats. Once he was done Armitage felt strangely shy, naked next to Tozer in all his uniform, but Tozer gave him a squeeze on the bum and kissed him again and his worries that Tozer only wanted him for a squeeze in skirts seemed unfounded, the way Tozer was looking at him. And after all, he couldn’t very well have looked worse naked than in the dress. 

Armitage let himself be handled into bed, tucked in amongst the sheets. He almost asked if Tozer would stay a while, but knew that he couldn’t. Tozer had the grace to sit on the side of the bunk a moment, looking affectionately at him, and brushed his hair back from his ear. ‘Oh,’ he said, sounding disappointed.

‘What?’

‘Wait, is - no, that is your bad ear. I just always thought it’d look a bit, you know. Not right.’

‘I had measles,’ Tommy said plaintively. ‘It just looks like the other one, don’t poke at it.’ 

Tozer obediently drew his hand away, although not without a last furtive touch of the side of Tommy’s face. Tommy wondered how long Tozer had been wondering, and then felt a small stab of pride that Tozer had evidently thought about him, even if it was somewhat in the context of a specimen. Or like a boy keen to get a look at a horrible scab.

‘Well. Goodnight, Tommy,’ he said. ‘Sleep well.’

Tommy wanted to go after him, but knew better. He’d have to hope Tozer would be back for more - they usually were, at least for a bit. He lay in his bunk, grinning to himself like he’d got a day off and a new set of clothes for Whitsun, and a man to walk with besides. He mentally thanked his fellow stewards for that bastard frock, which lay rumpled over his chair. Then he closed his eyes, and imagined Tozer in his red jacket, asking him to a dance, taking him in his bunk, any and all of it, and drifted off all too soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Last minute preparations are made - Armitage gets waylaid just as the play is about to commence - and Hickey discovers his unorthodox version of Christmas spirit.
> 
> One more chapter because we can't help ourselves.

It all seemed very unfair to Armitage, that no one minded being shoved into a dress and kicked onstage as much as he did. Lots of laughter and exaggerated mock-flirtation as they stood about putting the last touches to costumes and running through lines and cues. But then that was the sort of thing the officers did. Why couldn’t they have dragooned one of the mates into it rather than him, that’s what he wanted to know. Not that it would have been worth his while protesting. Best to just get it over with.

They stood milling about together, he and the other officers in his predicament. Not that they seemed to think of it as a predicament. They were all quite enjoying it.

‘Why, Graham, you look like a glazed ham in that thing!’

Lieutenant Gore laughed and wafted himself with a fan. ‘You know, George, I do rather.’ He looked down at himself; at his dress, a fleshy shade of pink with puffed sleeves to rival Armitage’s. ‘What do you think, Mr Armitage, am I ready for the pot?’

Armitage shuffled and muttered yes, sir, and wished they’d just leave him alone. Gore’s familiarity grated less because he didn’t have to serve the man daily, but it was still uncomfortable. The only thing worse than being privy to their old boys’ jokes was being half-invited to share them. In a dress.

None of them were showing as much skin as him, either - Lieutenant Hodgson’s gown might be ridiculous and hideous, a strange faded yellow with frills everywhere, but at least it covered him modestly. And Gore might have even looked pretty if not for the colour. Armitage crossed his arms over the place where his bosom ought to be and wished the ice outside would swallow him up.

‘Where _is_ Gibson? Armitage, over here!’ 

Armitage grimaced and made his way over to Commander Fitzjames, who was all powdered up for Marley’s ghost and seemed to be enjoying tossing chains over his shoulder the way a woman might a pretty scarf. ‘Sir?’

‘Do you know where Gibson’s got to? We’re sorely in need of some refreshment. Or fortification, as it may be.’ 

‘No sir, I’ve not- not seen him.’ Armitage could’ve murdered Billy. As if it weren’t bad enough being in this bastard frock, with not even a shawl to cover his shoulders, the last one having been purloined by Lieutenant Hodgson some time since. As if it weren’t bad enough. Christ. 

‘Could you see your way to getting us something to drink, then?’

Armitage gaped at him. ‘Walk through the ship like this, sir?’

‘Yes,’ Fitzjames said, sharply, ‘if you don’t dawdle at it, it shouldn’t be a hardship.’

Armitage privately thought that rushing would only make it worse. Give the men something to chase. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said, resigned. Not like any good ever came of talking back.

As if taking pity, Fitzjames added, ‘You might have a drink yourself, if you get them back to us in quick time. There’s a good man.’

He walked through the ship, trying to be as circumspect as possible - the wrong approach, it turned out, when as he was unlocking the stores he felt a hand at his waist and a rough voice in his ear. 

‘What’s a lass like you doing about, eh?’

Now, Tommy had had more than enough of this lass and dress business. ‘Sol, you might not. Billy’s pissed off somewhere so now I’ve to fetch and carry for his lot as well.’

Tozer snorted. ‘Poor you. Still, if it means getting you alone…’ The hand on Tommy’s waist tightened, and he relaxed into it. His concentration was well off, and unlocking the stores took longer than it should’ve, but finally they piled in and Tozer shoved the door closed behind them with his boot.

At any other time Tommy wouldn’t have minded any of this at all; it was the sort of thing he had to stop himself thinking about. But at that moment he was hardly in the mood. All he could think of was that he was supposed to stand up in front of everyone looking a spectacle and say his three lines and he couldn’t remember any of them.

Tozer pushed him up against a barrel and nuzzled into his neck, then slipped a hand up his skirt. ‘What’s all this?’ he said, sounding affronted. ‘You’ve got your trousers on.’

‘So’ve you,’ Armitage countered. ‘What did you expect, women’s drawers?’ He suspected the answer was nothing. Like he’d be going onstage opposite the Captain in naught but petticoats, practically in the nuddy.

Tozer shook his head, disregarding the argument, and groped Tommy’s arse through his trousers. Tommy felt strangely naked already, with Tozer’s hand moving about under his skirts, and for a moment imagined that he did have nothing on - that perhaps Tozer would pull up his skirts and dip his head under them too, that he might -

And then Tozer said, ‘Suck us off, there’s a good girl.’

Armitage moaned, and not entirely with pleasure. ‘I can’t- I’ve got to be back-’

Tozer tutted. ‘You’ve come over a blushing virgin in that frock.’

‘I’m not a virgin,’ Armitage said indignantly. ‘I’m just _busy_.’

‘Is that right?’

‘Yeah, it is. And I don’t even have to pay for it most of the time.’

Tozer laughed. ‘Ladies’ man, our Tommy.’

Armitage huffed. He didn’t know how to defend the truth of it without seeming less believable, and settled for, ‘Well, it’s always fun. But it is better with men, isn’t it.’

Tozer stroked along the frilled neckline of Tommy’s chemise, peeking up above his dress. ‘Why choose?’ Then he pinched Tommy’s nipple and smirked. Tommy jumped at it, unused to having so much of his chest on display for any wandering hand to paw at, and heard a seam rip under his armpit. ‘Come on, we both know what you’re after. In a red frock too, you little tart.’ 

This struck Armitage as deeply unfair. ‘What colour are you wearing, then?’

‘But I’m a man.’

‘I’m a man!’

‘I know. You’re not fooling anyone in that dress.’

Tommy mentally added Tozer to the list of people that he wanted, at that moment, to throttle. He disentangled himself from Tozer, not without regret. ‘Help me with the door, will you?’ he said, once he’d gotten the bottles and glasses into his arms. ‘And perhaps I’ll see you later?’ 

Tozer opened the door for him, a perfect gentleman, and then ruined the vision by giving him a smack on the bum as he left. 

As he swished down the narrow corridor, he knew Tozer was watching him go. It almost made the walk bearable. And then he got back to the bustle and clamour of the preparations and remembered all over again that he had to go on like this, in the bastard frock, and now with a ripped seam and a still-hard cock bobbing about in his skirts. 

‘You found the supplies, then? The men were all but taking wagers on whether you’d been abducted,’ Fitzjames greeted him, and Armitage tried to look suitably sorry for taking so long. ‘Never mind - a tot for the nerves, eh? Why don’t you join us.’ 

Armitage poured their drinks and then poured himself a rather large one and downed it at once. Poured himself another, when no one was looking. He thought he might take that as an open invitation.

****

Gibson’s absence had not been by accident, so much as careful design. And more than a bit of luck. Hickey had been loitering about and making a nuisance of himself well before the play was due to commence. He was taking in the scene with the ease of a man who knows he has no part to play in it. He picked up a prop here, toyed with a bonnet there, idly, waiting for Gibson to finish primping the officers and pulling their hats and scarves about them. 

He’d been asked himself to do a bit of carol singing at the beginning, one of the men saying he looked young enough - was short enough, the implication seemed - to pass for a lad, but he’d soon dissuaded them. Being both unwilling to carry a tune and ignorant of the words to whatever sentimental bollocks they’d all cry rum-soaked tears to later on. Get as far away from England as you liked and they still did maudlin drunken sodding Christmas.

Finally Gibson appeared in sight, ferrying a load of linens that’d seen better days - Hickey wasn’t sure for what part of the play, but his natural curiosity was overrun by his desire to take advantage of the clatter.

He stuck a leg out, pretty certain that Gibson would see it and not trip over. Indeed, he just picked his way over it and glared at him.

‘What is it?’

Hickey winked at him. ‘Got a present for you.’

Gibson didn’t look as happy as a man ought to on receiving such news, chewing his lip. Hickey tried to reserve judgement. They moved between the men carrying all sorts about, unseen in the bustle, until they were quite alone outside Gibson’s cabin. Hickey looked at him hopefully.

‘Come in, then,’ Gibson said, not with very good grace, Hickey might add.

Hickey got in and sat fully on the bed, bolder now there was nobody about this end of the ship. If he’d a mattress like that and a man sitting on _his_ bed about to give him a present, he’d complain less, he thought bitterly. Although it wasn’t a very comfortable bunk; he did wonder if Billy had got knocked around at night when they weren’t iced in. And it must be colder. But that wasn’t the matter at hand.

Billy sat next to him, their legs not quite touching. ‘What is it, then?’

Hickey sniffed. ‘That any way to ask?’ But he couldn’t resist any longer, and pulled a paper bag out of his pocket with a flourish. ‘I knew you were missing sweet stuff. There you are then.’

‘Oh,’ Billy said, visibly moved or pleased or relieved, maybe. Visibly something, anyway. Hickey proffered the bag and Billy took one, popped it in his mouth, gave a loud _mmm_ when Hickey wouldn’t stop watching him intently as he sucked on it. 

‘It’s very nice,’ Gibson finally said, voice sticky. 

Hickey beamed and sidled up closer. ‘Glad you think so, Billy.’ He put a hand on Billy’s thigh and looked up at him through his lashes. He’d worn his best - better - shirt specially, put on a clean necktie, made a present of himself so that they might have a proper Christmas evening of it. 

The sound of Billy sucking away at that sweet wasn’t unpleasant, but he was taking an awful long time of it and Hickey was now very aware of the other things Billy might do with his mouth. Things he’d like Billy to be doing with it. He reminded himself they had all night, probably. 

‘Sorry, do you want one?’ Billy asked, still sucking at it. His voice was almost comically distorted. Hickey frowned. He didn’t much care for sweet foods; besides, it was perfectly clear what he wanted.

‘Nah. They’re for you.’ Time seemed to drag and Hickey reminded himself that he was trying very hard to be in the spirit of Christmas cheer and goodwill and all that malarkey. He leant his head against Billy’s shoulder and was rewarded with a nuzzle and a sticky kiss to the side of his face. He tried not to be too put out by it. 

When Billy had enjoyed his sweet and put the bag to the side Hickey felt that the first part of his present had gone as well as could be expected. He pushed Billy back against the sheets. Stared down at his face, smiled at him, and said very sweetly, ‘I’ve thought up another present that might interest you.’ 

‘Oh?’ 

Hickey moved to get his legs either side of Billy’s, straddled him and sat himself atop Billy, pleased as could be. ‘Want to stick it in us, this time around?’

Gibson made a face involuntarily. ‘God, Cornelius, did you have to put it like that? You make it sound so appealing.’

‘Well, don’t you?’ Hickey narrowed his eyes at him, before collecting himself. 

Gibson pursed his mouth. ‘I - I do prefer it the usual way.’ 

Hickey’d not been expecting a fanfare, per se, but the pretence of interest would’ve been nice. Still, he thought he’d let Billy get away with it, in the spirit of Christmas charity or something. He had missed him, as well, just a bit, for the couple of days he’d determinedly ignored him, and what kind of a Christmas present would starting all that again be. 

He shrugged, made himself seem offhand. ‘If you like, then. No skin off my back, is it.’ He smiled, and Billy’s chest seemed to deflate with relief, a breath neither of them had realised he’d been holding. He was skinny under his shirt, and Hickey traced the freckles at his collar. They stood out more now his skin was paler, now the sun barely scraped the horizon. 

Billy gave him those puppyish eyes, wide, and he had to stop himself, biting back some reflexive remark. Instead he let his hand wander down across the angular planes of Billy’s chest, down to the waist of his trousers. Unbuttoned them without ceremony. He was aware of Billy’s eyes on him the whole time, and it made him sterner. 

Billy was hard already, firm when Hickey drew him out, and Hickey’s heart softened at that. It got him hot, as well, the proof right before his eyes of how much Billy wanted him; he’d barely laid hands on him.

‘You been hiding this the whole while?’ He tugged at it, harder perhaps than Billy would like, getting a bit carried away he was so pleased.

‘Ah - Cornelius, you-’

‘Mm?’ Hickey pressed his face down close to Billy’s, so close he could smell the mint on his breath. 

‘I - we’ve time to spare for once, you don’t have to go at it like you do- oh-’ Billy bit his lip, face scrunched in what Hickey could only presume was rapture. He did slow down, though. No good Billy spending quite yet. With his other hand he pulled Billy’s trousers about his hips, and then had to leave off a minute to get them down entirely. Billy kicked them away and pulled Hickey to him; kissed him, then, and Hickey had to admit it was nice. Nice enough that he got his own trousers off too, and luxuriated for some time in the tangle of limbs and sweat, kissing and nipping at Billy’s neck and jaw. 

He took his leisure, but his prick grew insistent. He slipped a hand up Billy’s thigh, squeezed his arse, a nice little handful for such a tall skinny bloke.

A rattle beyond the cabin disturbed him just as he was making an inroad between Billy’s arse cheeks, and they both stilled. It seemed to be coming from the cabin along; then down the corridor, urgent footsteps. Hickey was not worried, no. Concerned. A little, perhaps. It certainly was a compromising position. 

Then Billy started laughing, and Hickey almost thumped him. 

‘What’re you doing?’

‘Oh, it’s just Genge. He’ll be in the privy for hours. As you were.’

Hickey relaxed and allowed himself a smile. He reached up for the lamp, got some of that warm oil on his fingers and felt again for Billy’s arse. They were lying face-to-face - unusual, for them - unusual to have a bed at all - and he found himself quite enjoying it. Gibson panted into him, opened up easily, eager, even let Hickey suck a bruise into his neck as he worked his fingers into him. 

When he’d gotten three in comfortably he began to shift, to get up and get Gibson onto his hands and knees. But he was stopped; Billy dragged him back down. 

‘I’d like to see you.’ He smiled, slightly, which Hickey had always liked and which he didn’t see all too often. The lamplight was kind, left Billy’s face soft and very pleasing. He found himself flushed with cheer, and clambered to kneel between Billy’s legs, lift them - more leg than most people had body, he thought, not unkindly - and to get himself lined up. He pushed himself into Billy, slow at first, then more forcefully when Billy clawed at his back. He shut his eyes and breathed in deep; he could tell himself that he ought to be used to it as much as he liked, but when it was right like this there was always something overwhelming about it. 

He started to move in earnest, getting into a nice rhythm, not too fast or slow but firm and deep, and Billy brought a hand up to stroke his hair. Well, his hands were clean enough, let him. Hickey found something about the touch choked him up a bit - it was soft, so very soft. 

He opened his eyes out of curiosity, when he could marshal the will to bring himself out of the pure feeling of the thing, and was rewarded with a true picture before him. Billy’s eyelashes fluttered, his face lacking any of its usual guard, and his shirt billowed about him, softened the angles of his shoulders. Hickey felt a pang he didn’t wholly trust, or know what to do with. 

To distract from it he thrust harder, chasing his pleasure, enveloping himself in it, and soon enough he was spending into Billy. Billy opened his eyes then - looked up at him with wonder and want and - perhaps a touch of ruefulness, but Hickey never could be sure. Didn’t matter, anyway. He shivered and let his satisfaction wash over him, and then pulled out. He ran a finger through the seed leaking out of Billy’s arse, and then feeling considerate he pushed three fingers back into him.

Billy writhed, started touching himself in earnest. 

‘That’s it,’ Hickey said, sitting up to watch him as much as he could. ‘That’s good.’

Gibson opened his eyes to glare at him. ‘I’m not doing it for you, you’ve had yours.’

‘All right,’ Hickey said affably, ‘just glad you’re enjoying it.’

Gibson shrugged at that, as if to say _fair enough_ , and then grunted at a particularly deep thrust. 

‘You can be as loud as you want. Nobody here to care.’ He considered. ‘Well, maybe not that much louder, but a bit.’

‘I’m not asking for sodding directions - oh-’ 

With a couple more thrusts (and a fair bit of sound, Hickey felt vindicated to note), Gibson came all over his own hand. 

Hickey came to lay down beside him, curved against Gibson’s side and let Gibson clean them with a handkerchief. He knocked the sweets as he was reaching to put the soiled handkerchief back on the table, and narrowly stopped them clattering to the floor.

‘Go on, have another. A treat.’

‘I suppose it is Christmas Eve,’ Gibson said. ‘Just… one thing,’ he started, around a mouthful of boiled sweet, looking down at the bag with dawning realisation. ‘Where did you get them?’

‘Just had them,’ Hickey said. He stretched out like a cat, rubbed at his face, sleepy. ‘Oh, hang on, though. I wouldn’t flash them around your man Jopson if I were you.’

Gibson groaned.

‘Could always put them back if you wanted,’ Hickey said slyly, and could have laughed when Gibson snatched the bag away from him. He gave Hickey a chastising look - not to last, however, for when Hickey curled up against his chest he couldn’t stay cross for long. They lay like that for a while, basking in a kind of comfort rarely afforded them. Almost domestic. But as Hickey was just wondering half-absentmindedly if he could start touching at Gibson’s arse again, a muffled cheer rose from the far depths of the ship. The play must be in full swing, or else the sight of Lieutenant Hodgson’s ankles under his petticoats had started a riot. 

‘All right, Cornelius,’ Gibson said at last. ‘We should go back, I don’t want to miss the whole play.’ 

They began to get dressed again, straightening out each other’s collars and then making the bed, which had fallen into disarray. Gibson sat the bag of humbugs down on the table, and gave Hickey a kiss. Maybe this Christmas stuff wasn’t so bad after all. Though he might change his mind if they started up with all that singing - more like bawling - again.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The play goes off, with a few hitches - Armitage has the worst and then the best Christmas Eve of his life - the captains struggle to communicate their desires - and Neptune makes his stage debut.

The play had, thus far, gone off fairly successfully. Commander Fitzjames had been perhaps an over-impassioned Marley, and Des Voeux was certainly the sulkiest ghost of Christmas Past yet to grace the stage. Everyone, however, had loved Lieutenant Little in the guise of Bob Cratchit - even the Captain seemed to rather enjoy bullying him. 

Tommy waited anxiously in the impromptu wings, peering from behind the drawn-back curtain. He was having a hard enough time hearing what was happening onstage, with the general noise and muttering and the regular roar of laughter or approbation. His head was throbbing - he’d drunk more than he should’ve, the officers’ port lurching about in his stomach and giving his mouth a horrible sweetness. In a grand twist of irony, having sent Sergeant Tozer away, Tozer was now the only thing he could think straight about. His lines, once dutifully learnt, were floating off in his head in all directions. Only three, he only had to get through three and then he was done.

Suddenly Fitzjames was pushing him on. Crozier sat across from him - oh, there were lights, and sound, and Tommy had no clue which way to look or where to put his hands, and he had to stoop to stop the seams of the dress from stretching still further. He almost tripped over the hem of the petticoat in his hurry to be seated, and the men’s laughter drowned out Crozier’s lines. Soon they understood this was a sentimental scene and settled down somewhat, just as Crozier said, ‘Have I ever sought release?’

‘In words, no.’ There - only a few more lines to go. 

‘Speak up, and stop looking at the floor,’ Fitzjames hissed at him from the wings.

Tommy felt himself flush, and looked from his boots to the space above the men’s heads. 

‘In what, then?’ Crozier, at least, had a loud and distinctive voice that he could follow above the whispering of the crowd. 

‘In a - a changed nature. Would- would you try to win me now?’ He was gabbling, trying to get through it as quick as he could.

‘You think not.’ 

‘Heaven knows!’ Tommy launched in, and then, suddenly, the words had left his head entirely. ‘The - the dower, today, tomorrow and yesterday - A poor girl - um - regret and repentance.’ No one said anything. He tried again. ‘This is the truth, that today and yesterday - oh-’

He could hear Fitzjames muttering furiously from the wings, trying to prompt him, but he couldn’t make out what he was saying.

‘No, Captain Crozier, sir,’ he said finally. ‘I shan’t marry you, and that’s that.’ He stood up, curtsied (or made an attempt thereof), and hurried offstage, where Fitzjames was standing, looking sour. 

‘What happened to the words, Mr Armitage? The script?’

‘Forgot my lines, sir. Sorry.’

Fitzjames put a hand to his head. ‘Well. Captain Crozier will no doubt be relieved to get the scene over with,’ he finally said. 

Armitage felt waves of relief flooding through him - he’d half expected Fitzjames to make him go back on and finish the thing. Now he might actually enjoy it. He absentmindedly picked at the hole in his dress and watched from the side as Crozier was guided back into the present.

The rest passed well enough, and indeed, Tommy even found himself laughing at the bits he could make out. Mr Blanky’s booming ghost of Christmas Present, wreathed in leaves of painted paper and with his hairy chest fully on display, transported him from the anxiety of the play and into the world itself. For the first time since picking up his script he felt something like admiration and pleasure rather than dread. Lieutenant Hodgson’s Mrs Cratchit was spoken in an incomprehensible falsetto, but certainly given with gusto; when he flurried about the stage the men cried out cheers of a none-too-wholesome nature, and Hodgson only minced further. 

The best bit of all, though, was Lieutenant Irving as Tiny Tim. He sat there with a set of child’s crutches - Tommy would have liked to stand the man who thought of that a drink - swayed, really, because he was maybe even drunker than Tommy. And that was before Neptune ran on stage and started humping his leg as he tried to pipe his way through some child’s pieties and Little eventually had to drag it off him by the scruff of the neck. By the end of the scene Armitage was pink and teary-eyed from laughter, hanging onto Gibson who’d reappeared and been forgiven.

They watched Jopson run on at the end with a scarf hastily thrown about his neck, to do Crozier’s will onstage and off. He seemed unusually pleased when Crozier announced him an intelligent boy, a remarkable boy, and when he was meant to come back in with a prize turkey he instead came clattering on with trays of drinks, to the general good cheer of the room. Tommy really didn’t need another, but he had one anyway. And he might have another after that, since the drink was sure to be flowing - everyone had been hiding their rum ration for a week. It was Christmas, after all. The room clattered with men enjoying their chance to indulge fully in the chaos and merriment Christmas afforded them; they talked over the play, their favourites and failures (they mostly passed over Tommy’s performance in kind silence, which was better than he’d dared hope for). All around, he was met with cheer and goodwill. And to his relief the officers had gone off to do whatever they did; presumably what the men did, but with fancier drink.

***

Captain Crozier was unused to so much congratulation; even when he’d been made captain he was sure there wasn’t this much fanfare, certainly not on his behalf. But his performance had, it appeared, gone over more than moderately well. Blanky, never one for undue praise, had ribbed him something merciless over his performance at his grave - ‘not a dry eye, Frank, and not even on account of the rum’ - although Crozier suspected it was definitely on account of the rum, and even he wasn’t immune to hastily-wiped tears of laughter at poor Irving’s mishap. His officers were jubilant, even Little. The men were pleased. So, it couldn’t really have gone much better.

Except - except he wanted to see Fitzjames, and Fitzjames kept eluding him. He was the man of the moment, at ease in a sea of Erebites crowding to praise his script, his acting, his fine direction. ‘Another drink couldn’t hurt,’ he said to Jopson, who poured him one, impassive. He told himself he was waiting for the right moment. For a break in the lieutenants’ glorying where he might slip in, unobtrusive, congratulate James and ask him for a private word later on. In the hope of more than a word. Except, of course, that he could never be unobtrusive - even in their cups his officers would feel bound to fall silent and agree with everything he said in as few words as possible. Well, he’d been a lieutenant, and he’d kept to that etiquette himself. Not that he’d give up a captaincy for anything, but sometimes it was lonely.

Finally Fitzjames seemed to be turning about - perhaps now would be the time - perhaps -

‘Well, that went over rather well, Francis. But you must learn to control your men - their rowdiness…’ Sir John said, stepping neatly into the gap between Crozier and Fitzjames. ‘And I’m not entirely convinced they needed any more rum.’ 

Crozier bit the inside of his mouth to stop himself saying anything he might regret. Sir John’s presence had thrown him, caught him in the failure of the past when he was on the cusp of moving forward. It would make him maudlin, if he weren’t careful. And it didn’t help that that fool boy Thomas Armitage had addressed him, as it were, out of character. It was funny enough when it happened but now it just seemed a humiliatingly grotesque reminder of past disappointments. He’d almost wished they’d gone through with the original joke and had Jacko up there - the monkey could hardly have been worse.

‘Oh, don’t look so sour. I don’t begrudge any of them a spot of fun at Christmas. And I certainly didn’t know you had that in you - I must say, I’d never imagined you treading the boards.’

‘Thank you, Sir John,’ Crozier said, though he was unsure if any of it was a compliment. He could see Fitzjames in the distance growing further away, moving to speak to another set of officers. If it had been anyone but Sir John he’d have excused himself - rudely, but done it anyhow. Just his luck. 

‘I think I shall take an advance party back to _Erebus_ \- the service tomorrow won’t write itself. Could you arrange a party of marines to accompany us? I fear for some of the men on the ice in that state.’ 

The state of the ice or the men, Crozier wondered. He was about to send for Sergeant Tozer, but then caught the gleaming jacket of Sergeant Bryant over by an impromptu punchbowl the men had set up. Ah, at least someone would share in Crozier’s bad luck. He hailed the man over and had him escort Sir John.

By the time he’d properly arranged everything and seen them off, Fitzjames was nowhere to be found, and Crozier’s patience was wearing thin. Probably off enjoying a chance to peacock about, as ever - another tall story for when dinner grew wearisome - he imagined Fitzjames in some future great cabin, turning to some future handsome lieutenant, ‘Did I ever tell you about the time I played a Dickensian ghost in the Arctic? Only a trifling thing, you understand, but it passed the time...’ - and bade Jopson bring him another drink.

***

Fitzjames had thoroughly enjoyed his evening, but he really had to wash the white paint from his hands and face - and if doing so gave him a reason to disturb the captain in his cabin, well. He speculated Crozier would not mind a disturbance, one last visitation. 

He’d missed him after the performance, somehow - had been, he had to admit, rather caught up in a flurry of mutual congratulation and drinking and general merriment. When he extricated himself Crozier was nowhere to be seen, and surely another few minutes of enjoyment couldn’t hurt? Which had turned to a quarter of an hour, then half, then more, but now he was more than ready and just a little repentant of his laxity. Still, he could more than make it up to him.

He knocked at the door to the great cabin, wincing a little when his fist left a little white stain on the wood. But instead of Crozier he got Jopson. He didn’t dislike Jopson, indeed, rather admired his efficiency and discretion. He was still faintly apologetic about the teacup he’d smashed, though he would, of course, never admit it. It wouldn’t do to apologise for such trifles. 

‘Ah - Jopson. Could I speak to Captain Crozier? We have matters to discuss - and I’d appreciate the use of his washstand,’ he gestured helplessly to himself. 

Jopson seemed to look over his shoulder for the briefest moment. ‘Sorry, sir, he’s indisposed.’

Fitzjames craned his neck to peer into the cabin, as if he might catch a flash of Crozier - he didn’t know, on the privy, he supposed. ‘Do you think he’ll recover in the next half-hour?’ he asked hopefully.

‘I’m afraid not, sir,’ Jopson said. If Fitzjames didn’t know better he’d have thought him rather satisfied.

He frowned. ‘The next hour, then?’

Jopson shook his head. ‘Sorry, sir. He’s called it a night.’ Entirely too satisfied. Damn him, and damn Francis. To bed alone - on the very night of their joint success? Had he learnt nothing from the play he had so assiduously studied, the part of the repentant miser that he had so unexpectedly shone in? Fitzjames felt Crozier might as well have stuck a stake of holly through his heart and called it good-day. 

‘Well. I’d rather hoped- never mind.’ Fitzjames was about to add, ‘Tell him I called’, but then in a flash of childish pique omitted it. If Crozier was determined to be left alone then left alone he’d be. James wouldn’t crawl after him. He left, sure that he could still catch Dundy and the others walking back to _Erebus_ if he tried.

Behind the door of the great cabin, Jopson pursed his lips and looked to the bunk, where Crozier lay in a drunken stupor. From the lower deck he could still hear the raucous sounds of men singing, clomping about in some kind of dance, even. Perhaps he’d join them later. He sighed. Then he helped himself to a small portion of the captain’s liquor, clinked his glass against the captain’s empty one lying on the sideboard, and went back to polishing the silver.

***

‘Who’d have thought Neptune had it in him,’ Gibson said, and Armitage broke out into helpless peals of laughter all over again. ‘All right, it wasn’t as funny as all that,’ he added, but started laughing along with him. Armitage had had enough to drink that everything seemed rosy and comical, but Neptune’s assault on Irving’s dignity really had been something. He was left whooping at it, almost crying, and stretched out against Gibson to steady himself. When he started hiccuping into Gibson’s chest it only brought on fresh hilarity about them.

‘You’re looking merry, Tommy,’ he heard from over his shoulder, and tried very hard to stifle his giggles. He looked up at Tozer’s ruddy face and beamed at him, straightened up so they were eye to eye. ‘Does the lieutenant know you’re laughing at him?’

‘Who isn’t,’ Gibson murmured, and Tommy did try not to laugh but couldn’t help it, it just burst out.

‘I’m not -’ he started ‘- I’m not laughing at the lieutenant, I’m laughing at the dog-’ which was clearly untrue, as he couldn’t get through the word lieutenant without spluttering again.

Tozer shook his head fondly as even Gibson started to get the giggles. ‘You want to be off to bed before he catches you, Tommy. You won’t want duty owing with the head you’ll have in the morning.’

‘Looking out for him, are you, sergeant?’ Gibson said, in a way that seemed a bit pointed.

‘I’ll just point him in the right direction. Don’t want him ending up in the wrong cabin, not a very welcome Christmas present,’ Tozer said, which nearly started them all off again.

‘Well,’ Gibson said, when he could keep a straight face, ‘goodnight then. Don’t go keeping Dr McDonald up all night, eh Tom,’ he said with raised eyebrows, and took himself off.

Armitage allowed Tozer to heave him up a bit as they walked to his cabin, relishing the warm touch about his waist. His skirts swished about, and Tozer looked very handsome beside him; he could almost close his eyes and imagine them walking down some lane together. Like it was with a girl back home after a dance, except this time Tommy got to have a man on his arm.

‘Was I all right, then? On stage?’ he asked, even though he knew he’d been rubbish.

‘You weren’t half bad,’ Tozer said gallantly. ‘Best thing in it after the dog.’ After a moment, he added, ‘Didn’t spot any of them popes, though. I thought there were supposed to be four.’

Tommy was muddled enough from the drink without this, but he valiantly tried to explain. ‘No, Sol, the fourth ghost is the Pope - except he isn’t - wasn’t - some of us were just saying that, so you’re sort of right that there’s no popes.’

‘Hmm,’ Tozer said, sounding unconvinced. ‘Well, there was something funny about it.’ He didn’t expound further, and Tommy consoled himself with taking Tozer’s arm.

When they got to the cabin he didn’t even have to ask - no fumbling or awkward gestures like it was with women, Tozer just stepped in after him and shut the door. 

‘I should - I should-’ it seemed imperative he change into his own clothes, even as he saw Tozer eyeing him up, enjoying the curve of his shoulder where it was bare. ‘Let me get this off -’

‘Can’t sleep in that, no. All right, then, good night,’ Tozer said and made to turn around.

Tommy just stared at him for a long moment, dismayed. ‘Oh - but - good night,’ he said, lamely, although he wanted to say a lot more than that.

‘No, I’m having you on, don’t look so tragic,’ Tozer chuckled. Tommy could have thumped him if he weren’t so relieved.

He struggled with lifting his petticoats up, muttering ‘Don’t - don’t tease us like that,’ but he was secretly very pleased. Less pleasing was the dress, which was in a tangle about him, and his arms were starting to ache trying to pull it off and all.

He must’ve sounded distressed, because Tozer ran a soothing hand down his side, as if to help. He pushed him to sit on the bed and pulled Tommy’s trousers right down, not even bothering to pull his boots off first.

Tommy made a noise deep in his throat. Tozer’s warm, rough hand was on his thigh, under his petticoats, and the thought of finishing what they’d barely started earlier had been playing on his mind enough that he was half-hard already. 

And then it was even better than he had imagined, because rather than sitting down beside him Tozer got to his knees in front of the bed.

He had to put a hand over his mouth to stop himself shouting out, and felt very much like the heroine of some melodrama, and then all thoughts left his head - after a very quick pull, Tozer took him into his mouth. He was that wound up his thighs started shaking almost as soon as Tozer sucked, licked at him, all the heat of his mouth surrounding his cock.

He thanked his lucky stars he’d had something to drink, which took the edge off a bit. He didn’t much fancy his chances of a decent showing otherwise. 

He opened his eyes to see Tozer’s head half-hidden by the skirts, bobbing up and down, and by god it was a sight. When Tozer brought a hand up, fondling his stones, he knew he’d not last much longer; it was too much, too overwhelming. He wanted it to last, to teeter on the almost unbearably pleasurable brink of his crisis for just a bit longer.

But he couldn’t - Tozer’s mouth was so insistent, and the thought of having such a strapping marine as he’d been making eyes at for months now really here, really sucking his cock and humming around it and - he couldn’t stop himself, and came in Tozer’s mouth with a groan. 

By the time he’d shuddered through it Tozer was moving off, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Well, you enjoyed that,’ Tozer said.

Tommy coloured up a bit. ‘See how long you last,’ he said, although he suspected it’d be a least a little bit longer. ‘Come on, help me get this sodding frock off and I hope it never comes out of that costume trunk again.’ 

He did feel a little mournful when it came off, though whether that was because of the rip right down the bodice or the fond memories he’d be unable to say. Tozer pulled it off him with surprising care, and a great deal of fondling. Even though he was no longer in skirts Tozer still pulled him onto his lap, sat him on his knees.

‘Hang on, let me get my things on,’ he said - he wasn’t sure he liked being so bare when Tozer was still dressed - but Tozer just ignored him. Tommy wriggled sideways, then kissed him, then felt a bit wobbly so just laid his head on his shoulder and held on tight.

‘Come on, you were sober enough just now,’ Tozer said, laughing. Tommy made an attempt to undo Tozer’s trousers but the buttons were very fiddly, especially with one hand engaged in holding himself steady, so he settled for pawing at Tozer’s hard cock through the fabric instead. Then something occurred to him.

‘I didn’t look too stupid, did I?’

‘You what?’

‘Earlier, when I was on stage. I know I was rubbish but it wasn’t too - it wasn’t - it was over quick, wasn’t it?’

Tozer shook his head. ‘I said already, didn’t I, why do you keep asking. Want me to tell you you’re a pretty girl?’

That stung, that Tozer would make fun like that, and that what he felt was so painfully obvious. ‘Nay, Sol,’ he said, looking down, ‘that’s not kind.’

‘Hey, hey.’ Tozer grasped Tommy’s chin and brought his face up. ‘What’s all this?’ His gaze softened for a moment. ‘Well, you’re a lovely boy when you’re not in a dress. Just lovely.’

That was better, because he knew he made for a truly ugly girl and wouldn’t have believed that, but he believed this.

Tozer kissed him, and it was messy, granted, but well-meant. Tommy closed his eyes and felt very peaceable and very sleepy. He felt Tozer get his own buttons undone and begin to pull at himself. Tommy dearly would have liked to help but he felt strongly that he had to cling very tight to Tozer so as not to topple off. And there seemed something secure about it - to have Tozer in his arms, encompassing him, feeling his gentle movements as he edged towards his crisis and his breath quicken. Soon Tozer was huffing against Tommy’s neck and spending into his fist. 

As they held onto each other, both becoming drowsy, a chorus of discordant voices could be heard from the mess. ‘Oh,’ Tommy said, sitting up, ‘they’re doing Hail, Chime On, that’s my favourite, I don’t want to miss it.’

Tozer groaned against him, though it was not ill-natured. ‘Can’t it wait? You can just ask tomorrow and everyone’ll be happy to sing it again.’

‘Oh, it doesn’t matter -’ Tommy said quickly.

‘I’ll bloody ask, then,’ Tozer said. ‘When you’re not too busy. Go to bed, now. You won’t half be jaded tomorrow, tell you. And you might want to get dressed before you fall asleep.’

Tommy grumbled and shuffled into the nearest shirt and his underthings. He thought Tozer might leave, but to his delight he tucked himself in beside him, murmuring, ‘Well, a few more minutes can’t hurt.’

They curled up together, and despite the cold were soon adding their snores to the coarse array of noise gathering through the ship; carols and ditties and drunken debates, the cook clattering about ready for Christmas morning, men in all degrees of merriment, and the last group of Erebites staggering back to their ship through the snow. Soon enough the watch bells would chime and Tozer would have to be up on deck; but for now, they slept as though all around were quiet and still.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was always said of him, that he knew how to keep Christmas well, if any man alive possessed the knowledge. May that be truly said of us, and all of us! 
> 
> Hail chime on, chime on; merry merry Christmas bells chime on!


End file.
